We are Scattered Through Time and Space
by kkolmakov
Summary: Modern AU one-shot collection based on your prompts, and sometimes just something that comes to my barmy mind. John Thorington (modern AU Thorin Oakenshield) and my OC, Wren reincarnated through times and locations and always finding each other *No Infringement Intended*
1. Burger

"That is not a burger!" his tone is definitive and disdainful. Cantankerous, inconceivable, arrogant brute!

"That is a burger. It is vegan." The shock on his face!

"All right, I can tolerate living on the rabbit grub you've been feeding me for the last four days, but at least stop shaping it into normal food! The grass cannot pretend to be meat!"

You grab the plate and throw it in the sink. It shatters, the burger you spend an hour fussing over mixes with the glass shards.

"That is it, I've had it with you! If you don't like my cooking then why do you insist on eating here?! There is a whole bunch of burger joints just across the street, go get yourself a piece of real meat!"

"I paid for three meals as parts of the package in your B&amp;B!"

"The ad clearly stated it is a vegan place. No meat, no dairy!"

"So the burger didn't even have cheese in it?" the tone is now sarcastic.

"It did. It is soy," suddenly you are sad for wasting food. "Was soy."

"I'll pay for it," his tone is mollifying. "Although it isn't my fault you have temper."

"Is everything about money with you, Mr. Thorington?! I spend an hour trying to please you!.." Oh bugger, you did not just say that…

"Indeed?" Bloody sodding gods, help me, in the name of Rassilon! The lifted brow!...

"You know what I mean," now you sound like a petulant child. "I endeavour… to incorporate… the interest of my guests..." Guest, you only have one so far. Why is he getting up and coming closer? "The excellent service is build upon… thorough consideration..." Oh my ovaries, he is like a prowling mountain lion.

You step back and bump into the counter. His arms cage you and he smirking. The cocky bastard!

"I am going to kiss you now. Is that all right?" Nod, damn it! That's my girl.

His lips are hot and magical. Gods, he does know what he is doing! Finally, you can touch the bloody glorious waves of his mane, they've been tormenting you for four days.

"I eat your food because when you worry that I won't like it, you bite your lip and fuss around me," he is purring and slides his lips onto your neck. Bloody hell, you are going to combust right here right now!

"You can eat your meat in here," you knees buckle, "just not in front of me."

"I'll eat your damn rabbit food," he growls and picks up your buttocks. Oh sod it! You wrap around him and bite his neck. It is after all _**bed **_and breakfast!


	2. Running

**Ha! Who said I can't control myself and stay away from smut?! :) Given it's pretty steamy and, weirdly enough, I was asked for smut, but this one just wouldn't go there. I still kind of like it :)**

You swing the bat and the polycarbonate headlight shatters, spills on the sidewalk and Thea squeals in delight and terror. You swing it again, and another blow follows. "Fuck you, Snake, and fuck your tiny pecker! Cheating tosser!"

At that moment you hear the loud voices coming from the joint, and the door flies open. You grab Thea's hand and dart down the street. "Common, run!" You are dragging her, still clenching the bat in your other hand, and you hear violent curses behind you. You sprint up, but then you hear the booming drumming of biker's boots behind you.

You see a narrow arch between the buildings and push Thea there. "Split! I'll lose him faster." "Wren!.." She tries to protest but you are already running ahead. You pick up speed, measure your breathing and when you already feel you have lost him, a large body smashes into yours and he pushes you into the narrow back alley. He slams you into the wall, and you yelp.

You stare in a pair of livid blue eyes and realize it's not your ex. He also pauses and steps back from you. "What the bloody hell?" He is breathing heavily, his chest heaving. You vaguely remember seeing him in the Snake's joint before, they call him The King, stupid bikers' swank. He is large and clad in black leather, which is nothing new with those tossers. He also drives a Manx Norton, just like Snake's… Oh, no…

"You are Snake's girl, right? What a hell is wrong with you?" He grabs the bat from your hand and throws it aside. He is still fuming and fisting his hands but he is in control. "I… I thought it was Snake's bike..." How are you supposed to know? Sort of looked the same... "Are you bonkers, woman? You were smashing your man's bike?" "He is not my man," your tone is venomous, "He cheated on me with a slaggy waitress from Polly's."

Why are you telling him this? Let's add humiliation into the mix, al'right? He stares at you and you notice the black ink on his neck. It crawls from under the collar of his black tee, and it is some sort of flame. It licks the tendons and veins on his throat, and hides behind his right ear. You swallow.

"Pillock," he frowns. You start edging sideways. "Sorry for your bike, I'll pay for the shop..." "Wait," he places his hand on the wall near your head. "Wren is it?" He licks his lips, and you are suddenly hot. If he tries anything you won't be able to fight him off. The question, will you fight though?

He is close, and he smells surprising nice. The leather, the cigarettes, but also the fresh soap and something else. His own fresh and spicy smell. You momentarily wonder what his skin tastes like and clench your fists. You need to get out right now.

He makes some internal decision and stares into your eyes. "Want to go out with me?" You freeze. No, you don't need another biker in your life, all their "the gang is the family", "I am the one with my bike, the ghost in the machine" crap. He is waiting and then snarls, "Sod it!" and presses his lips to yours.

He tastes good. Damn it, he tastes better than anything you've ever tried in your life! You moan and grab the back of his head. He is so much taller that you get up on your toes. He picks up your bum and you wrap your legs around him. His mane is in a loose ponytail and you scrape the nape of his neck under it with your nails. He growls and sucks on your neck.

You are bloody bonkers! You are making out with a random biker in a dark backalley, and one of his hands is already under your denim shorts. You are not wearing much, a decision to smash your ex's bike came to you when you were railing to Thea in your kitchen. Shorts and an old oversized tee over a boring white bra. Damn it, what does it matter what bra you are wearing? It does, since the same hand snakes under your shirt at the back and his deft hot fingers are on the clasp. You tear your mouth from his.

"Stop, stop!" He pauses and stares at you. The pupils are dilated and his cheeks over the black beard are flushed. "I am clean," he rasps. What the fuck? Does he really think you are going to shag him against the wall after speaking to him for five seconds?

You might. You have never done it before, but this time you might. You are not a blushing virgin, you had your share of men but nothing too wild. That is definitely wild. But bloody hell, there is something about him... "Me too, but that's not what I'm talking about!"

He exhales couple time and then carefully puts you back on the ground and smiles. It is a surprisingly sunny smile. "Sorry, love, got carried away." You realize your shorts are unbuttoned. What the hell, when did that happen?! He looks and sees your knickers peeking out. They have little pictures of crossed swords and battle axes on them. He cocks a brow and smirks. You smack his shoulder.

"What's you name? You normal name, not that pompous bikers' rubbish?" "Watch your tongue, woman," he guffaws. "Don't call me woman." You are smiling too. "It's John." "Nice to meet you, John, I'm Wren." He chuckles and pulls you into him. He is leaning in and you lift your face to him. "Take me to dinner." He smirks and nods. "For starters," he murmurs. The nerve in this guy!


	3. Networking

Is this the right door? It looks like the right door. What am I saying, they're all the same, bloody brown colour and ugly handles. What kind of a half arse nitwit uses Roman and Arabic numerals, and occasional letters on doors in the same building, on the same floor?

Sod this maze and sod this conference! You should go, John, networking is good for your research, John. Mingle, meet other professors, your matrix models in financial risk assessment and emerging markets fixed income indices need recognition. What you models need is you in front of the computer for a month, without any distractions!

And also, were they pissed when they were drawing the campus map? Sod it, let's hope this is the right door. You push the door, and it becomes obvious that it is definitely not the Morning Bleeding Panel of the Third Bloody International Economics Conference. The auditorium is large, packed with students, and at the bottom of the amphitheatre a lecturer is sitting on her desk. Is she sitting on her desk with her legs crossed?!

You feel like an arse, and start backing up. "Well, succumb to the gravity already!" Her voice is clear and commanding, and you plop your arse on the nearest bench. All students turn to look at you with a loud rustling sound running through the auditorium. The girl sitting next to you gives you a disdainful glare. Man up, John!

The professor returns to her lecture. Why did you sit? The escape route was just there, how old are you, dimwit? Her voice is energetic, ringing through the room, and you gather it is some feminist, manhate filled, English literature crap. You look around, most of the students are indeed girls in glasses, with an occasional bloke with ridiculous hair. Blimey, you just had to get into this aggro!

She is quite a looker though. Unruly flaming curls gathered in a messy something on her head, two long pins sticking out. Are those pencils?! The calves of the crossed legs are toned, breasts perky. What the bloody hell is wrong with you? Did you just imagine running your palms over those legs?! She is pretty far away, you can't even see her properly, deprived perv.

She jumps off the table and you understand that she is tiny. She will hardly reach your shoulder. Small but curvy. A jumper goes down mid thigh, but you can see enough to know there are hips, and a delectable round bum.

She is pacing in the front of the auditorium, gesturing energetically. Her small hands are flying in front of her, fingers splayed and motioning some round forms in the air. "Initially, she wanted to name her novel after the main heroine, as she did in _Mary Barton _but Dickens, a chauvinistic arse as he was, God rest his soul, insisted on a title that would emphasize the geographical and cultural difference between the two regions, and consequently the two characters, which gave the male character equal footing to Margaret. Never a woman on top obviously!…" The class laughs, and she pushes a red curl off her face. "Lord David Cecil in his assessment of the novel in _Early Victorian Novelists_ in 1934 states that she was "all woman" who "makes a creditable effort to overcome her natural deficiencies but all in vain"". She lifts a brow and the class laughs again. "Deficiencies, my ass!" You look at her in shock.

She keeps talking, pacing, her whole body moving in a mesmerizing rhythm. You can see it is a body of a dancer, you dated that crazy bird from Liverpool, you remember the signs. Her hands, face, shoulders, curls and hips are lecturing too, and her passion is pulling you into what she is trying to tell, and you are actually listening to the lecture. She is all fire and snark, but there is no manhate. She is sarcastic and observant, and you feel that yes, the character of the novel you vaguely remember from school program, "though dreamy, is a man like any other with flaws and a tender heart."

The lecture ends and students clap. You join in, and she bows to the audience, laughing. "Get out, get some fresh air, make out with random strangers, you are still young!" She motions them out. "Next week I'm expecting rough drafts of your term papers or pathetic excuses for why you cannot hand them in!" The leaving students laugh again.

You get up and to your own disbelief you start walking down the stairs between the rows of benches. The female students in square plastic glasses give you disapproving looks. Yes, that is a beard and long hair. I'm that chauvinistic tosser of a manpig that you all hate some much! Just let me pass, would you? What is wrong with uni chicks these days?!

The professor is picking up her stuff from the desk. You are still trying to get down, and see her dropping first the pen, then a notebook. She picks them up and drops her phone. It slides under the desk, and she bends down with an exasperated "Oh fiddlesticks!". You admire the backside and then think, "Fiddlesticks?" Your crazy aunt Tessa still says it but she is 90.

You come up to her while she is inspecting the phone. You cough, and she lifts enormous hazel eyes at you. She is also wearing the stupid plastic Grandpa glasses, but they are hot on her. You notice the freckles sprinkled on the nose and cheekbones. Common, John, don't budge it!

"Hey..." Brilliant beginning. Aren't you smooth today, John! She blinks and then smiles. "Hey you too!" You stretch your hand out. "John Thorington, University of Manchester". She shakes your hand. "Wren Leary, shortbread biscuits connoisseur." It is your turn to blink like a dimwit. Not that she blinked like a dimwit! It was actually cute! Did you just mentally use the word "cute"? She shrugs, "I thought we are exchanging honorifics."

Your mind is blank. There are couple of daft arse pick up lines floating there but in general it is just void. Something like "Then you should have said, "Wren Leary, the gorgeous."" Oh, just end yourself now!

She takes pity of you and smiles, "Judging by the attire," she motions at your leather jacket, "you are not in the English literature there, in the University of Manchester." "Economics and Computer Science." "Uh-huh," she is fixing the glasses on her nose. Those are actually pencils in her hair. "So what brought you to my lecture, John? Or did you go into a wrong door?" Blimey. She starts laughing. "Seriously? What are you, five? You couldn't excuse yourself and leave?" Her laughter is contagious and very sexy. "You have a commanding voice!"

She pushes your back into the door of her office and grabs you around your neck. She pulls your head down, and you are kissing her, your head spinning, all your skin burning. How did you get from walking through campus and chatting, well, all right, shamelessly flirting, to her greedy little hands pushing your leather jacket off your shoulders? You grab the bottom hem of her jumper and pull it off. Fuck, those are hell of beautiful breasts! Perky, round, perfect size for your hands, and the red lacy bra is a pleasant surprise! You are groping each other and move away from the door.

She jumps away from you and darts back to the door. What?! You feel completely drunk. She locks the door, dashes to a shelf near a wall and start rummaging through a box on it. You are standing in the middle of her office, like a complete pillock, staring at her. She fishes a condom out of it and pounces at you. You shake off the stupour and grab her. You spin you two around and prop her on her desk, pushing some papers off to the floor.

"Those are ungraded papers, you barmpot!' She is laughing and pulls off your tee. What a hell is going on? You are completely dazed, her hot lips and surprisingly strong palms all over your chest and shoulders. You go into sensitive overload. But then her hand cups her erection, and you leap into action. You suck on her neck and ear and unclasp her bra. The jeans buttons go next, and her hot palm encircles your shaft. Fucking fuck! She is biting your shoulder and suddenly pushes you away. You are blinking and staring into her giant eyes, still covered with the glasses.

"So you know, I've never done that before, the condom is from that safe sex event they had on campus, and I only dated three guys in my life." All you can do is nod and hope she doesn't change her mind. "You are just so..." She waves her hands in front of your face and suddenly grabbing a handful of your hair she presses her mouth to yours again.

That does it! Brain off, libido on! You grab the waist of her denim and knickers, she supports her weight on her hands, lifts her bum, and the clothes are on the floor. On the way they apparently drag off her shoes with them, judging by two thuds on the floor. You press kisses to the tops of her breasts, she drops her head back. Then her ribs, she giggles from the beard, then her stomach, then her thighs and knees and she spreads her legs wider. You are kneeling and see a pair of happy pink socks with yellow polka-dots on her tiny feet. You chuckle, and she slightly kicks your shoulder.

You shift your attention to her hot center in front of you, dark curls wet and glistening, but she grabs your ears and pulls you up, gently but decisively. You get up again and she grabs the square package wrapper. "I'm clean though," she says pointedly. "Me too," you choke on your words as she is rolling a condom out onto your cock. She pushes your jeans all the way down to your knees and wraps her legs around you waist. You catch her mouth and push in her.

She is super tight, and it feels divine. She is clenching her inner walls and making soft mewling noises. You start thrusting, gentle at first, but quickly picking up speed, since the encouraging pushes of her calves on your arse and her nails digging into your shoulders are sort of hard to misinterpret. You are just starting to feel the pressure pooling in your stomach, when she bites into your shoulder and comes. She is panting and pressing her forehead into your neck, and a sudden feeling of tenderness floods you. What the fuck is with you and this girl, John?

It is quickly forgotten since she pushes her hips into you again, and you start thrusting into her still quivering walls, and then the world shatters, fireworks, stars and shit. More like a nuclear bomb explodes in your brain, and everything around is white and hot.

You two are panting, her naked bum is on the table, your arse is cooling in the air of her office. She comes to her senses first and looks at you. She is gorgeous, the pencils lost at some point, orange halo of curls, giant hazel eyes behind the stupid, sexy glasses, and an adorable blush on her cheeks. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for," she mumbles, and you start laughing. "That is the weirdest thing anybody said to me after a shag." She chews her lip and say, "Seriously, I don't know what came over me."

You kiss her again, this time it is your turn to do it right. "I have never done it before either, I have had five serious relationships. I'm single and clean. Will you have dinner with me?" She guffaws. Have you mentioned you just love her laughter? "It sounds very nice, except I can hardly take you seriously since your cock is still in me." "It likes it there," she smacks your shoulder. "I don't like Chinese, the rest is fine." "Deal," and you kiss her again. Best conference ever!


	4. Christmas

**A/N: It isn't based on a prompt. But it just wouldn't leave me alone, so here it is :) It is very raw and needs editing, but I'll just post it anyways.**

You hate Christmas. You hate it with every fibre of your soul. The obnoxious lights, the consumerist frenzy, the cheesy elves and red-hatted dwarves everywhere. Have they read the fairy tales? Those guys are supposed to be ferocious warriors and blacksmiths, not daft faced, rosy cheeked present wrapping clots! Everywhere around you, it's constant ho-ho-ho and even underwear in the stores is all red and green. A sexy Mrs. Santa Claus? Seriously? The fake smiles on postcards, the ideal family picture that everyone has to match for a week, while Aunties and Uncles are here, and then you can go back to hating and backstabbing each other.

To think of it you can think of one, only one good Christmas you have had in your life. That year you got the worst stomach flu one can imagine in the morning on Christmas Eve, and you were vomiting so violently and loudly that your kind-hearted next door neighbour came knocking at your door. You were so pallor that your anyway pale skin had that weird glowing greenness around it. Here is the Christmas cheer for you! You called your parents on Skype so that they could actually see you, since they would probably be certain that you were faking it to "cower your way out of your responsibilities". They let you go very quickly, probably because you actually threw up in front of them into a garbage bin.

You slept most of that day, and then on Christmas Day you opened your eyes in your own flat, in your own bed, and that was the best Christmas morning you could imagine. You had some chicken soup that the same neighbour brought you, bless her, and you were watching telly. Then you opened the present you bought yourself and actually wanted, as opposed to "a pair of nude high-heeled louboutins that every self-respecting girl has to have". Sometimes you want to yell, "No, Mom, the book is still a better present", but your years of trying to shout through to them have passed long ago.

This year you are unfortunately healthy. You are obviously contemplating faking it or maybe very carefully jumping under a cab, so that all you get is "'tis but a scratch" but at the same time so that you would still have to go to a hospital and sit in a line for six hours. That would be your second best Christmas then.

You are out of luck this year. In the morning when you are already finishing packing, you hear a knock at the door. Thinking that it is your favourite neighbour, Mrs. Banner, you swing the door open and see your older brother. He saunters in your flat, not waiting for an invitation and gives it a critical look over. Great, what is it this year?

Wren has this weird plant in her parlour. Really, what kind of plant? Is it a cactus? Is it a ficus? Is it marihuana? Oh, don't be like that, Wren, you mingle with those hippies, anything can be expected from you. I work in a publishing house, Mom! Well, that is not a law firm for certain. Look at your hair. I gave you that very expensive hair straightener that my very gay hairdresser suggested. And you still look rather unpleasantly disheveled.

He is standing on your favourite rug, a puddle of slush growing under his very expensive shoes, probably made of baby lambs that only had peaches in their comfortable but short lives, and he sighs in exasperation. "You are still not ready." No shit, Sherlock, and you know why? Because the last thing I want to do is to carpool with you, your snobbish wife and a way too mature for her age teenage daughter.

Every time you happen to your niece, you send your gratitude to all possible deities for being kicked out of that fancy school for girls. Disorderly behaviour, my ass. You punched a teacher in the face. They should have given you a medal. The dick was humiliating and mishandling girls for years, the only reason he was not charged with anything was that he never actually moved beyond verbal abuse.

"I will drive myself, don't worry," you are pointedly not moving from the entrance door indicating that he should go. He makes a scornful noise, "I would not trust your car. In all this snow a Jag is the only safe option." Nonetheless, he puts his gloves back on and leaves. Dear sis, your car is old and rusty and you will kill yourself in all this snow, but see you later. Lovely!

Now there is no chance to escape. They saw you, they know you are still breathing, you are expected to be at the dinner that you mother "cooked". Meaning she was in the vicinity of the goose they are going to serve for the Christmas dinner, and possibly the cook passed her the thermometer to recheck the readiness. Why is it always this goose? It's greasy, heavy, you remember the smell of it for days afterwards, the especially chosen mandarin oranges for its glaze sticky and glossy on its skin. You shiver in disgust.

You scan your belongings again. Which of the two will cause less indignation, a white fluffy pullover with a turtle neck, which "makes you look a bit too round, dear", or the black V-neck sweater, "that is a bit too tight around your breasts"? Choices, choices…

Another knock at your door shakes you out of sad contemplation of your wardrobe. Since your middle brother would never fall so low as to drive to this part of the city, you bravely open the door. It is indeed Mrs. Banner this time. She is a tall, lithe woman, with the most gorgeous silver hair you have ever seen in your life. She is beautiful, at her 70 she is confident, flirty, and snarky. You adore her and sometimes, after an especially difficult day at work or a conversation with your mother you just feel like running to her flat and crying in her arms. You never do, but sometimes you think she probably would not kick you out. She would probably make you tea and rub your back. That's what mothers do. Supposedly. You saw it in a film once.

"My dearest, I know you are leaving to visit the Angels of Death," you might have overshared your frustration regarding your family matters, she did not seem to mind, "So I will be concise. I'm having a small gathering tomorrow, some of my least appalling relatives, so you are invited. Come back earlier from that house of torture. The party starts at five, but you are more than welcome to come any time before or after it."

You always stay at your parents' for three days, there is no way you can escape before it, but you keep a brave front and thank her ardently. You want to rush inside your flat for her gift, but she stops you. "You will give it to me tomorrow, my dear," she gives a quick pat to your hand on the doorframe and leaves.

You are dragging your suitcase into the elevator and feel stupid tears pooling in your eyes. You don't want to go, you want to stay and watch telly, maybe make yourself a nice small dinner. And tomorrow at fifteen past five you want to put on your favourite dress and go to Mrs. Banner's, have a drink and chat with her relatives and friends. You once met her cousin, a very old gentleman who was entertaining you for an hour with his stories from his youth when he was a jockey. You think you haven't laughed so much for years. He was winking at you and saying that you reminded him of an old flame, pointedly looking at your unruly copper hair.

You can hardly see anything from the moronic mist in your eyes, when you step out of the elevator and collide with a wide, cashmere clad chest. You start mumbling excuses, completely dragged now, and lift your face. In front of you, you see the most stunning pair of blue eyes. The man standing in front of you is very tall and very broad-shouldered. He could almost be called heavy, if only all that mass didn't radiate dynamic strength. It is a body that moves a lot. His palms are on your shoulders, and you are frozen in the doors of the elevator. The low rumble of an absolutely sinful voice floods your ears, he is graciously asking for forgiveness, and the doors start closing. He slams one of his large palms on its edge, and it backs off.

You are staring. You are standing on the threshold of an elevator, its doors jerking spasmodically under his hand, and you are ogling a tall dark stranger. He is indeed very dark. His face is tanned, and the black hair is thick, wavy and to your utter shock seems to be very long. You cannot see but have a distinct impression that he has a long ponytail on his back. A few silver strands above his forehead and on his temples make him look even more stunning. There is a beard too. You hate facial hair, but this beard is something else. It is lush, smooth, and it is just asking to be touched. You feel your fingers twitch.

The elevator squeaks pitifully and tries to close the doors again. The object of your ogling keeps his palm on it, and you realize he is holding it so you can come out with your suitcase. The spell broken, you squawk couple more pardon-me's and dash by him. Please, any deities there are in this world, don't let me run his feet over with the suitcase.

You rush through the hall, outside, the elevator finally closing behind you, judging by a relieved ping you hear. Your heart is beating in your chest like a frightened parakeet. You are an idiot, Wren, you got flustered from bumping into a guy. Pull yourself together, what are you, twelve? Yes, he was impressive, but he is not even your type. Tall, skinny, blond with smart specs and sensitive long fingers are your type. Intellectual, slightly burdened, slightly insecure… You like Apollos, the guy in the elevator was Hephaestus. Firm stubborn jaw, large calloused hands, what does he do, forges mock medieval weaponry? Thick black eyebrows, massive forearms, as much as you could see under a black coat, expensive spicy cologne. The muffler was nice, dark blue, and velvety. Alright, enough analyzing every little detail you noticed about him. You probably will never see him again.

The cursed car does not start. You try and try, but it just gives you a pathetic cough somewhere deep in its metal belly, and then nothing. There is petrol, there is a spark, maybe, after all there is some sound coming out of it. What do you want, poor pet? Please, please, please, let's just go. I know you want to stay home, believe me, I know. But we need to go.

They are waiting for you. And every minute you are late they will come up with a new cleverly veiled insult to bestow on you later. Come on, let's not give them another reason to smash your dignity in pieces. You are already not a lawyer, single, red haired, skinny, hate polo and derby, vegetarian and bookish, what else do you want to add to it?

You slam your hands into the wheel and start sobbing. Please, please, I never ask anything from you, but if you are there, any deity whatsoever, just let me get it over with. Three days and you can go back to your life, where you are respected and somewhat loved, Thea loves you for sure, where you have friends and even laugh sometimes. You press your forehead into the wheel and sob louder.

A gentle tap on your window makes you jump and you hit your head to the rearview mirror. The guy from the elevator is standing outside your car and he has to bend down substantially to peer into your tiny car. You lower your window and smile. All you can think of is that you probably look like a racoon. For the first time in forever you put some mascara on, for your parents' sake, and now it is probably trickling down your face.

Another thought blaring in your head right now is that he took off his coat and stands in front of you in a red pullover with rolled up sleeves put on a white tee. You were right, the arms are massive, black hair covering the forearms, palms large and broad. Your both hands can fit in one of his. "Hello! Wren right?" "Yes?" Are you asking, Wren, because it sure sounds like you are so dazzled that you can't remember your own name. Literally. "I am John, John Thorington."

And then it clicks. Thorington as in the son of Hamish Thorington, Mrs. Banner's first husband. John as in her son, the historic architect and the expert in medieval armour. You were not that far off with the forging idea.

"Would you like me to have a look at your car?" His voice has to be illegal. It is soft and low, the Northern accent almost untraceable but giving it an interesting tinge. "Yes, please. I don't know what is wrong with it." His eyes are not blue as you initially thought. They are cerulean, with a mirthful glint in them, with crow's feet in the corners. These are eyes of a man who laughs a lot. "The bonnet?" You pull the lever and he disappears at the front of your car. You frantically check yourself in the mirror. Well, it could be much worse. Just a couple smudges.

Your car is dead. The coughs you heard were its last cries of agony. John says so, and the mechanic who grumpily arrives on Christmas Eve two hours late confirms it. In those two hours John is entertaining you with a small talk. It is mostly him talking since you are tongue-tied. You worry that he is cold but he chuckles and says that the city winter is as easy as falling off a log. You assume he means he is fine.

When the mechanic leaves, you give in to your despair. You are already late and now you need to find a cab who will agree to drive you for four hours. Four hours through... a starting flurry? Bugger, sodding weather, can it get any worse? You let John carry your suitcase back into the building hall, and you fall on a sofa.

He is standing towering over you and you feel like screaming. Stop invading my personal space! You with your majestic mane, gorgeous eyes and effortless chivalry. Stop being so enticing, so alluring with your rock hard muscles, your warmth, your laughing eyes, the white even teeth! Stop asking what you can do, stop helping, stop seemingly caring! Stop being so perfect!

Go back to your wonderful life! Go back to your medieval castles, your skiing and mountain climbing that Mrs. Banner is so proud of and worried about! To the endless parade of gorgeous high class women that are probably throwing themselves at you. To your interesting and fulfilling life, and let me wallow in my misery! He sits near you and your senses are assaulted by the smell of his skin and the heat radiating from him.

You pull out your mobile and he suddenly covers your hand with his hot palm. "Tell me you are not planning on calling a cab." "I am." "It is a four hour drive and it is a blizzard out there. No cabbie will drive you in this weather, on Christmas Even to the other end of the city, to say nothing of your parents' house. Call them and tell them you are not coming." "I can't." "No one will expect you to come. It is plain dangerous!" They will, he just doesn't understand, they don't care. All they will know that you were not there on time when antipasto is served. "I have to go, I can't not go!" Why are you arguing with him? It is none of his business. "Wren, you are not going anywhere in this weather." "Why are you telling me what to do?" You both are raising your voices. "Because you are obviously not thinking straight. What is there so important that you just have to be there?" "You don't understand!" "Then explain," he sits closer to you but you still have to tilt your head to look into his face. "If I don't go, it will only prove… they will just say..." "What?" "That I'm a failure!" You shout and then cringe. That sounded so melodramatic!

He is looking at you with an unreadable expression. "Sorry, that was daft. I meant..." "I know what you meant," he sighs and then suddenly picks up your hands. An electric shock runs through your body and you just hope he doesn't feel that your fingers are trembling from the contact with his skin. "You are a young, attractive, smart and successful woman, but when you go there you feel like you are ten and you…" He is looking for a thing to say. "Like I just got kicked out of a fancy girls' school? Yeah, pretty much." "Even more reasons not to go. Why would you subject yourself to that?" "Because if I don't they'll give me hell later." "How?" "They'll call..." "Dont pick up." "They'll come..." "Don't open the door."

You jerk your hands out of his and jump on your feet. "It's easy for you to say. You have the most wonderful mother in the world! You are the full package! You are gorgeous, hunky, talented and rich! You have nothing to be afraid of, and you know you are loved! I just always feel… unwanted! You don't know what it's like!" You come to a halt and realize that you just yelled a whole load of overemotional crap into the face of a semi-stranger in the middle of your building's lobby. And you called him hunky. Gods, let me get killed by a lightning right now! You cover your face with your hands and just want it all to go away.

A second before his hands touch yours, you know he is standing close. The heat, the fragrance of his cologne and the calm strength coming from him envelop you, and he pulls your palms from your face. His eyes are laughing and an unidentifiable emotion is splashing in his eyes. Just, please, let it be anything but pity! You will not survive pity! "Did you just call me gorgeous and hunky?" "Yes, I did. And I stand corrected." He guffaws and pulls you into a tight embrace.

It is magical, and you realize you just want to spend your whole life here. Pressed into his warm chest, enveloped in his arms, your cheek on his strong beating heart. "Call your parents, Wren, and tell them you are spending your Christmas with a lover," he is murmuring into your hair. "I don't have a lover." "Good," he is smiling. You can't see but by now you have learnt the intonations of his valour voice. He lets you go and pushes your mobile into your hand. When did he take it?

"Common, dial," he urges, and you are biting your lip. "Oh cor blimey, give me this," he snatches the phone and starts flipping through your contacts. "Hey, it is private!" "Do you have texts from your boyfriend or naughty photos here?" "No!" "I'm not interested in anything except these two things… Aha, here is it!" He shoves the phone back into your hand and you hear the dialing tone. "Leary residence?"

"Mom, evening, it's me, I am afraid I have bad news..." You start pacing around the lobby, under his attentive gaze. You rub your neck and pull at the collar of your pullover. You attempt to explain but she interrupts and starts calling your father to the telephone. You shrink and lower your head. I am a smart, grown-up, fairly attractive woman… You are biting your lip, and then you father's even cold voice is crawling into your ear. You nod, and nod, picking up non-existing lint from your sweater. You forget about John standing there, and feel like you are indeed ten again, and Daddy is not very pleased with your behaviour.

At that moment a pair of hot lips is pressed at the nape of your neck, and you jump around. He is giving you a mischievous, lopsided smile and one of his eyebrows is lifted up. He is sexy as hell, his posture relaxed but his eyes are blazing. The sensually curved lips twitch, and he cocks the brow higher.

You see challenge and fire in his eyes, and you interrupt your father, "I have to go, Dad. Sorry I'm not coming. Merry Christmas!" You throw the phone behind you on the sofa and getting up on your tiptoes you wrap your arms around his neck. He bends down allowing you better access and pecks your lips. "All done?" You are laughing at his mock "exasperated yet loving husband" tone. "Yes, I'm done." "Great! Let's go, it's time to start cooking dinner." He picks you up under you bum and you hang on him, your legs around his waist, hands buried in the ebony mane. He starts walking towards the elevator.

"Are you going to kiss me or we are going to make out in front of your mother?" He guffaws and then whispers into your ear, "We have the whole elevator ride to find out."


	5. Shreddies

They meet at a grocery store near their apartment building. She thinks that he is charming. He thinks she has a delectable bum. She noticed him around in the parkade, he can't stop looking at her delicate throat. "So, tell me, Ms. Leary, what is your cereal of choice?" It's Two Scoops. He goes for Shreddies.

He is loudly crunching his cereal, she thinks he is the most adorable thing she has ever had in her kitchen. The cheeks under the thick beard are moving, he is absorbed in his newspaper. She is staring at the entrancing jaw line, he is pretending to read. "You are ogling me, Ms. Leary." She blushes, he gives her the entertainment section.

He shoves her on the kitchen table and pulls the belt of her bathrobe, she stretches and arches her back. Her shoulder bumps into the box and the brown crunchy squares spray around the floor. "I never liked your cereal anyways," she laughs. "You know nothing of the breakfast cereal." His beard tickles her stomach, she moans.

She throws the box across the kitchen, but it is empty. The sound doesn't bring release. "Why don't you just leave?" He looks lost, she is crying. He sinks on a chair, "I can't." She goes back to her bedroom, he is smoking in the kitchen. She says she will take care of it. The bleeding comes on its own two days later, she asks for her key back.

They have one-night stands, they move on. She dates, he shags. They see each other at the parkade, she pretends to text. She knocks at his door one night. She doesn't stay till morning. It is as good as they remember, it is much more hurtful in the morning than she hoped.

He is drunk, she is disheveled. He is banging on the door, she is surprised she opens it. They shag on the kitchen floor. She comes three times, he is mumbling words of love. They move to the bed. She thinks they will talk in the morning. She wakes up alone.

They meet at the grocery store, he asks if she is dating anyone. She retorts, he says, "It matters. I want to know." She pauses, he takes her hand. His blue eyes are pained, she misses his throaty singing in the shower. They kiss in the cereal aisle. He is clenching her coat, she can finally touch the grey strands on his temples again.

Tom likes the tasteless brittle squares like his father, Unna likes Frosties. With the third one on the way she always forgets at least one kind of cereal at the grocery store, he loves her more than life itself. She stares at his sleeping face, he makes her ginger tea in the mornings. The ultrasound shows two hearts, he mumbles "Out of a frying pan."


	6. Camping

**A/N: I started this as a draft for a fic that suddenly started expanding exponentially in my head. I'm worried it might turn into a full scale multi chapter story and then my head will explode. The whole universe of these characters is suddenly so clear to me, all of them already living their own lives. It is definitely running away from me again… 0_0 **

**So I'll just use the draft as an intro that outlines the premises of the story, while the second half is based on a prompt "camping" from Just4Me. She asked for smut and that is what she gets! Contemporary, non-Tolkieny language makes me more graphic :) Be warned!**

You meet Philip and Killian Durinson at the uni during the first year. Unlike the two blue-blooded "princes" who come from the long line of renown doctors and surgeons, rich and posh, you have a scholarship. To sustain yourself you tutor, work as professor's assistant and do the all available drone work in labs. You meet Phil first, one day his golden-maned head just pops up in your dorm room. He is failing Genetics, and here is where you come in. He is hitting on you all through the first class, after which you have a serious conversation. It includes kneeing him in the bollocks after an especially explicit attempt and a lecture on the respect towards women. You become friends after he aces his test, and that is when you get introduced to Killian.

The younger Durinson has no problem with studies. Less ambitious and probably less gifted than his brother in the medical field that they both pursue, he is nonetheless one of the top of his class. He does not require a tutor, he needs help in "the matters of heart" as his brother sarcastically puts it. The redhead he is after is in Anthropology and is a socialist. Since all the "scum" of the university, meaning those who have to work to get by, are more or less your close acquaintances, Killian comes to you for help. You introduce them, but she does not seem interested.

For no particular reason, you start dating. You are so wrong for each other that you never even get to sex. He spends couple of nights in your bed, but the spark is just not there. You break up, actually laughing about it, and become friends.

It continues for two years. Most of the time you study and work, but sometimes you let yourself forget the long list of goals set in your head, replace your glasses with contacts, put on red shoes and go out. Most of the time it is with your friends from BioChem, but with years it is increasingly more often with the Durinson brothers, and their clique of posh medical students. They are surprisingly accepting of you, probably since you are not interested in either of their males as a date. You suspect that they consider you gay, which you do not discuss, since it allows some degree of ease in your relationships and also because you are not sure yourself. At this stage you also do not care. You are busy.

With time they start inviting you to more family events, since the upper crust that they revolve in tends to have multigeneration gatherings. You get lost in the flurry of young faces. "This is Wren Leary, my friend from uni," that is how you get introduced to many people whom you would have never even dreamt of meeting. Phil is laughing at your constant resistance to use their family connections. "Use them," he is joking, "not that we need them." You receive your first grant because the head of the commission recognizes your face from the last year Equinox Picnic. You feel humiliated and stop going with the brothers to their mansion for breaks.

You miss it through, the old house, the enormous garden, the magnificent library, and mostly their mother, Deadre Durinson, nee Thorington. She is friendly, even-tempered and seems to envelop you with warmth and care. When you stay in their house, sometimes you feel that she singles you out of other friends of her sons, cares for you more, dotes on you even.

The only person from their small family you practically have never met is Deadre's brother, John Thorington. A renown neurosurgeon, he practices all around the world, travels a lot and his short visits rarely coincide with the occasions you are invited to. You suspect that he is avoiding crowds. You have seen him twice, once he arrived when you were already leaving the mansion, you shared a breakfast. He was jetlagged, and you are still not sure if his haughty silence is his customary treatment of the likes of you. The second time you saw him in a more official environment, during the Honourary Dinner at uni. You follow Sherlock Holmes' approach and delete the memories of his massive strong body clad in a dinner jacket. You have a tuxedo kink. If a sexual fantasy also included his blazing blue eyes and an exotic luscious ponytail an orgasm following it would probably incinerate you.

At the end of fourth year you give in to Phil's whining and agree to go to their mansion for their annual "trip to the swamps". Too late you realize that it means camping. A large crowd of their friends arrives to the mansion, they are later joined by their older relatives, and then everyone, loaded in Land Rovers, is driven into the middle of a swamp. You are mortified through the trip, newly bought camping clothes and no outdoors experience. You grew up in the heart of the city, the only grass you are familiar with is the bolding lawns in the city parks. The Durinsons both dote on you, help with a sleeping bag and share their bugspray.

While the older crowd enjoys some bird watching and fishing, you lot dawdle around. But the night comes, and the apparently long awaited bonfire time comes. It is roaring, flames are seemingly licking the sky, and you are awed. The only problem arises when you realize that bonfire means bewy and skinny dipping. Neither of the two interests you. You can't drink, pretty much losing consciousness after three shots, and even more so you are not looking forward to what you understand is an advertisement of available goods. When everyone starts talking too loudly and walking unsteadily, you sneak away and go back to your tent. You are supposed to share it with Killian, since you are sort of familiar with each other.

In the middle of the night while the noise of the bonfire party is still rumbling through the woods, you wake up because you desperately need to pee. You wander out of the tent clad only in light PJs and wellies. Unfortunately alcohol consumption usually triggers promiscuous behaviour in youth, and all bushes around the campsite seems to be occupied by two, sometimes three, people, and after learning three new sexual positions you are desperate. The swamp and the woods frighten you, but the nature calls. You venture into your quest.

After twenty minutes of walking and finally in a state of complete bliss from your bladder finally empty you realize that you are lost. Not completely, you more or less know where to go, the noise of the bonfire still echoing between the trees, but you suddenly realize that you are separated from the hostile environment of the wild nature by a flimsy cotton material of your polka dot pajamas. You carefully tread between the trees, constantly feeling that something is stretching its furry paws to get you. Then you catch a face full of spiderweb and shriek. Your own voice frightens you even more, and you dart sideways. Your foot gets stuck in an especially gooey muck and you frantically pull it out. You know you are being unreasonable, but you are shaking and sprint towards the fire you can see between the trees ahead.

Two things happen at the same time. You see a tent, erected under a large oaktree, and something grabs your leg. It is wet and scratchy, and you squeal. All decorum forgotten, you grab the zipper on the tent and jerking it open you jump inside. You pull the zipper up and freeze with your hands pressed into your chest. At this stage you don't care even if it is the Dean of your Faculty inside of it, which he is not, his was green, you are not going out there again.

**XXX**

"Are you lost?" The sleepy voice of John Thorington startles you, and you jump up with a yelp. The tent wobbles, and you stare into the darkness. Your eyes are used to the night already so you can guess the outline of his mane and wide shoulders. His cologne assaults your senses. Who actually puts any on when going to spend a night on a swamp? Doesn't it attract all kinds of stinging, blood sucking monsters? Or does it repel them? Your knowledge of camping is simply pathetic.

"Something touched my leg," you breath out as if it is supposed to explain him everything. He is lying on his back, propped on his elbows in futile attempts to see you better. "I am Wren, Wren Leary." "I know who you are." That's a surprise. "What I do not understand is what you are doing in my tent. Shouldn't you be in Philip's?" "I'm actually sharing one with Killian." "You are dating him now?" Is it disdain in his voice?

"No, I'm not." "So whose tent were you looking for?" "I wasn't looking for anyone's tent. Either would do to be honest at this stage." You certainly feel that didn't come out quite the way you planned it to. "I mean I'm not dating either of your nephews, sir, don't worry." "Why should I worry?" Because the likes of John Thorington do not approve of the likes of you shackling their sons and nephews. "What I meant is that I got scared outside and any familiar face would be welcome right now." "I am familiar." Bloody hell, is he flirting? Of course not, you are obviously misinterpreting.

You both are silent for a bit and then he sits up. You have never realize how massive his torso is. He has the same body structure as Phil, wide shoulders and broad chest, but he is two heads taller. He takes up all room in the tent and you suddenly feel trapped. Nonsense, you intruded on him and can just leave. On the other hand, whatever is out there might still be scarier than John Thorington. You look at him sideways. His extraordinary hair is loose, like a curtain of luscious wavy opulence.

"What did you say about your leg?" His velvet voice sounds irritated. You should assure him it was nothing, politely excuse yourself and leave. But whatever attacked you might still be there. "I was walking back to my tent and felt something grabbing it." He sighs and starts rummaging in his sleeping bag. After a few seconds he finally finds his mobile and lights up the screen. You blink from sudden light and seeing his face, with peevish scowl and drawn brows, so close in front of you. "Let me see." He definitely sounds irritated. You are hesitating. With another exasperated sigh he shoves the phone into your hands and suddenly grabs you under your arms. He pulls you closer, you are practically on his lap, your legs across his, and his deft fingers encircle your ankle. You squeak. "Does it hurt?" "No." You feel like a idiot. He gives you a sideways glance. Then he picks up your leg and examines first the foot and then the calf. The PJ pant is torn and dirty. "You probably tumbled over a root, I don't see any injuries." Your calf in in his palm and he is rubbing it slightly. "Does it hurt anywhere?" "No, it's fine," you suddenly realize that he isn't stopping, his scorching palm is brushing your skin through the hole in the pant.

The silence stretches, and it is quite a tense one. His thumb slips inside the gap in the fabric, and he draws a slow circle on your skin. That is already impossible to misinterpret. You consider leaping ahead and just kissing him, but the game seems to be going by different rules.

One of your arms is wrapped around your middle since you were subconsciously shielding yourself as he was so obviously apprehensive. The other one lies near his palm splayed on the floor of the tent. You slowly reach for his wrist and slide your fingers up the inner side of his forearm. You let your nails scrape the skin slightly, and you think you hear his breathing hitch.

He lowers his face to your neck and for a slip of a second you feel his hot lips on the side of your neck, behind your ear. Then you feel him smile into your skin, goosebumps quickly covering your whole body. You tilt your head allowing him more access. He brushes his nose along your throat. And then suddenly he moves you off his lap. You tense but then realize that he is unzipping his sleeping bag.

It is open and he is lying back, one arm open, another one supporting the flap of the sleeping bag. The invitation is quite clear. You bite your lip and then slip into his embrace. He closes the bag and smirks. "You will have to zip it up if you want to stay warm at night." You push one arm out of it and clumsily pull the zipper as far up as you can.

You two are pretty snug in the bag. Do they come in different sizes? This one seems to allow you both to be pretty comfortable inside, although you are mostly lying on him, pressed into his right side. You gingerly place your right hand on his chest and feel the soft fabric of his henley. He pulls you closer and you place your temple below his clavicle.

The erotic tension of a few seconds ago is gone, and you relax into the heat and fresh grassy smell of his skin. His breathing is even, heartbeat steady. You close your eyes and soak in the moment.

He is an amazing presence, strength and confidence radiating from him. You feel safe and sheltered. You don't want to think of the world outside the warm bubble you are in, you don't want to worry about tomorrow's morning coming and bringing the harsh light over your sleeping arrangements. You breathe him in and understand why they call physical intimacy "to know someone in a Biblical sense." The physical closeness allows you to know a person better than a hundred conversations.

His fingers tread through your hair and you feel him pulling out the pins holding your messy bun together. The dexterity of a surgeon is a magical thing, it allows you to pull out twenty eight pins while a girl's head is weighing your shoulder to the ground. His other hand covers yours on his chest and the thumb is rubbing your knuckles.

The strokes of his fingers are increasingly sensual, and you wonder if he can cause this much hunger inside you by lightly touching your hand with his fingers, what can he achieve with two hands? His mouth? His whole body? You take a shuddering breath and slide your hand from under his. And then you place it on the waist of his shirt and decisively slide it underneath. He sucks in air, and you feel triumphant. You are not a flustered girl he can play with. You splay the hand on his abdomen.

He pulls his torso from under you and rolls over you. Finally! He is deliciously heavy and hot, and he lowers his lips on yours. You have never been kissed like that. He is possessive, passionate, demanding. The cliche of "claiming your mouth" flashes through your mind. He slips his palms under your shoulder blades, and you arch into him. You wrap one leg around his waist and rub your pelvis into him

He groans and moves to your neck. He gives your throat a long scorching lick, and you moan. His hands are on the buttons of your PJ top, and he follows up every opened one with a kiss on your thorax. Your top open, he takes your nipple in his mouth and you claw at his shoulders. His tongue swirls around it and then he slightly bites it. You wrap the second leg around him. Your underwear is drenched, and you just want him inside of you.

He is apparently taking it slow. He is busy with the second breast when your patience snaps. You push your hand between your bodies and squeeze his erection. He hisses and bites hard. Good, enough of this unwavering smug self-control! You press your pelvis into him and cup his face. You force him to look into your eyes and suddenly you feel so powerful. His body on yours, his lips on your skin, his hot cock pressed between you two, it all feels right and you give him a predatory smile. You catch his mouth in a bruising kiss and push his tracksuit bottoms down with your feet. It's a very neat trick you learnt with a high school boyfriend, they never see it coming. You just have to be careful not to jerk them too sharply. He gasps into your mouth, and you close your palm around his cock.

Fucking hell, he is big. Not just big, you think it might actually hurt. But you are so wet and livid with lust that you just might be OK. Anyways, you are not stopping now. "I am on a pill and clean," you murmur in his mouth. "I don't sleep with women without a condom," he is panting and shakes his head. You assume that the long energetic strokes of your hand on his cock are slightly distracting. "Do you have one?" He is breathing through a wave of pleasure that shudders through his body and shakes his head. "You?" "Why would I? I wasn't planning on any adventures." He snorts and then lifts burning eyes at you. "Then we will have to solve our problems separately."

He takes your hand and gently removes it from his twitching cock. Then he catches you mouth and slides his hand into your PJ bottoms. The apt fingers find your clit and he gives it an experimental swirl. You moan and spread your legs wider. Oh, he is good! In most cases you need additional oral stimulation but he makes you come in a few seconds with just one finger in you. Given he has very large hands, you would usually need two and some tongue.

You are panting though your orgasm and he is lazily kissing your neck and collar bones. Your turn. You roll you two over as much as it is possible in the sleeping bag and slide down his body. You are small enough but there is another problem. You will probably faint inside the bag from overheating if you have to give him a blowjob without opening it. But you already hear him unzipping it. How considerate of him!

The task at hand is going to be laborious. His cock is not only large, the width is also beyond impressive. It has a whimsical curve, as if it is slightly pointing right and you giggle. He lifts a brow at you. You just can't help it and tilt your head to match the angle. He drops his head on the ground and chuckles. Some snarky remark dies on his lips when you take him into your mouth and give him a long strong suck. He clenches his fists.

In a few seconds you have him completely unraveled and growling through his teeth. You are taking him deep into your throat, bobbing your head and massaging his testicals. When you were sixteen you could not understand why your friend Thea was so enthused when in some medical journal you read that squeezing your thumb in your fist apparently turns off you gagging reflex. Now you find this information very useful.

He pushes you off him and comes with a loud groan. You help him through it with your hand, pressing your lips to his hipbone, and he is taking shaky breaths. He is coming down from his high and starts laughing. It is your turn to cock a brow. He rubs his face with his large palms and speaks in a shaky raspy voice, "I don't know why I'm laughing. I guess it's just been awhile." He grabs a towel from a bag nearby and cleans up. You are waiting till he pulls his bottoms up, and then he opens his arms for you again. You nest into his side and he zips up the sleeping bag. Then he lifts your face with his finger and looks into your eyes. You smile to him and then can't hold back a yawn. He smirks and kisses you tenderly. He is still smiling into the kiss but you already drift off.

**A/N#2: Somehow in my head Phil (Fili) has actually been genuinely in love with her for all these years. Since she rejected him from the start and he doesn't really know how to be in relationship, a stud as he is, he is staying around as her friend. He silently suffers through her short something with Killian (Kili), endures her occasional one-night stands, but he is still certain she is the one. He either tells him Mom, or she guesses, but that is why she is so welcoming towards Wren and suggests inviting her to their house as often as possible. Cue drama!**


	7. Canvas

**A/N: Not a prompt either, but I do what I want! :)**

You wake up from the intolerable headache, every muscle of your body hurting, and you open your eyes preparing for a searing pain from light hitting your pupils. It doesn't come. The room you are in is dim, heavy curtains drawn on the windows. You press the throbbing temple into surprisingly luscious sheets and breath in.

The first panic wave rises when you realize that as Dolly Parton said "the fragrance on you ain't Old Spice". It is expensive, masculine, tangy. The sheets carry the smell of clean male skin mixed with your own perfume. Fuck.

With relief you realize that you are alone in bed and in the room. You lift the head, and the walls sway. You clearly envision a sweaty hairy medieval guy banging on an anvil in your head. You edge to the side of the bed and peek on the floor. There is your dress, thank you, Thea for the wonderful idea that it is definitely not too slutty. Bra and knickers are there too, and you groan. The stockings in black silky swirls nearby. Shite.

You know you can't drink. You are a ginger, you lot have all kinds of weird chemical relationships with alcohol and medicine. Thus, your strict no drugs policy. And one drink per night. What you are experiencing right now is not a one-drink hangover.

Alright, time to face the music and dance. You pull your clothes on and cringe from the cigarette smell stuck to the fabrics. You stand up and wobble again. Right, first things first, you need to run. You will figure it out later. Maybe you will go straight to a walk-in clinic and check yourself, but right now you need to get to safety.

You try not to think about what happened under these Egyptian cotton sheets. You don't feel any pain though, there are no fluids on your body, you start shaking from the thought, but then you tell yourself that you would have known. If anything, you would hurt all over. Your skin bruises from a slightly enthusiastic poke with a finger. Except the muscle pain from dehydration, you are fine.

You have a choice out of three absolutely identical doors in the opposite wall. What kind of weirdo makes three doors separated by two feet of a wall from each other completely identical? Obviously he knows which one is which, but still it looks like a something from _Solaris_. You quickly scan the bedroom. You can't see much in the dimness but it is all clean lines and perfect order.

And then it dawn on you. It is a woman's place, isn't it? That would make sense. Maybe the smell on the sheets was unisex, your head hurts so much that you are hardly capable of a deep analysis of a fragrance. Everything is arranged perfectly, elegantly, deep brown and cream pastels.

You breath out and pull a door. It is a washroom. You need to flee but you really need to pee too. You flip a switch and stare at yourself in the mirror. Could be worse. Mascara smeared, curls in an orange nimbus, blue shadows under your eyes, but you seem fine. You check the pupils, they are not dilated. You are pasty and freckles stand out in angry orange dots. You clean the mascara with some toilet paper and brace yourself.

You pull the second door and get into a large sunroom. You have to squint and shield your eyes with your hand, but soon enough you can actually look. It is large, a big easel in the middle, a large shelf with art supplies, assorted weird objects on a large oak table. Is that a sword?

Alright, it's alright. Your host or hostess is an artist. It could have been so much worse. A drug dealer, an arms smuggler, a pimp… Artist in an expensive and endlessly organized flat is not the worst. Yet again, Dr. Lecter was a psychiatrist in an exquisite three piece suit. And again with identical doors, this time there are two of them. You are so tired of this lottery.

You exhale and pick one. When you are ready to step towards it, your eye catches the canvas on the easel, and you freeze. Your own naked thigh and buttocks are depicted with an astonishing precision. You know they are yours because you recognise a little constellation of moles on your hip. They are an almost perfect replica of Cancer zodiac, you googled it once. The curve is depicted sensually, erotically, but it is not lewd lust, it is a hymn to a woman. Your body is shown relaxed in deep slumber and your hand is on the sheets near your thigh, fingers slightly curled in a chaste, almost childish gesture. It gives the canvas an overall dreamy and tender ambience.

The artist is definitely a woman. There is no raw desire in it, the lines are soft and reverent. There is no macho dominance, not a single crude stroke. You are frozen in front of it when another door opens and your host comes in.

He is clenching a brush in his teeth, his hands full, a mug with steaming tea in one, and a plate of biscuits in another. He is pushing the door with his hip and halts on the threshold at your sight. You take back all your words regarding the non-macho thing. He is large, widely build, probably six two or three. From your five two and a half he seems like a giant bear, with the broad shoulders, massive arms and the most astonishing mane of hair you have ever seen. And you have seen a lot of hair in your life. You are a hairdresser after all.

The brush is clenched between the white even teeth, and it looks like he is snarling. Then his brows fly up and you can almost see the mental process in his head. He can't take it out because where will he put the tea then? To spit it out? To put the plate of the floor? He looks at the floor, then at you, and then he shocks you by slightly leaning towards you and waggling his head. He makes a funny whiny noise and pushes his face a bit more towards you, obviously trying to convince you to take the brush.

You brain goes into overload, and you see your own hand stretching and taking the brush out of his mouth. "Oh cheers! I thought I'll stay there forever, would you help me with these too?" He hands you the plate with the biscuits. The voice is molasses, low, raspy, woman's flat my ass.

It is obviously his though. He is dressed in a pristine beige cashmere jumper and dark jeans. He is also bare foot and somehow that feels very indecent. He smiles to you lopsidedly and cocks a brow, "So what do you think?"

You think you want to fall through ground and burn in the core of our planet. "About what?" Your voice is scratchy. "The painting. I would have asked for your permision, love, but you were unresponsive. Thought if you hate it I'll just paint something over it." "Don't!" You yelp and bite your lip. What in the name?.. Who cares what he does with it! Run now, Wren!

Suddenly his face is very close to yours and you flinch away. "Sorry, didn't mean to frighten you." He raises the hand unoccupied with tea in a mock surrender. "Just wanted to see your pupils, the roofie should be out of your system by now." "What?!" "You don't remember anything, do you?" He shakes his head. "You were in the club yesterday, and someone slipped you a roofie." Somebody? The thought is probably written on your face. "Not me! I found you sitting on the bonnet of my car couple blocks from there. I guess you escaped the fate worse than death. I had to do something with you." "And taking me to your place was the best option how?" You ask scornfully. "You insisted," he is smirking and sips his tea. The nerve in him! "And did I insist on taking off my clothes too?" "You did it yourself. And I have to say, with flare!" His smile is wide, white teeth gleaming, eyes hiding behind thick black lashes. "Don't you remember anything?" "I remember going to the club, with Thea. Oh bollocks, I need to call her, she is probably crazy worried!" You look around in search of your phone. He leans on a tall stool and takes another sip. "You didn't have a purse last night, and I don't think you can hide a phone in that dress." He points at the tiny scrap of material hugging your body. "Here, take mine."

Two things stand out when you take it from him. He has amazing hands, large, wide palm, just the type you like, the ones that can encircle your waist, and your buttocks can fit into these hands perfectly. What the hell is wrong with you? Second thing, he has a picture of his family as the background on his phone. The two grey haired people in the picture are definitely his Mom and Dad, family resemblance uncanny, they are laughing to the camera, hugging two smiling teenagers. "My nephews," his voice is laced with affection and pride. A person with such background probably won't cut you into small pieces and serve you with chocolate sauce, right?

Thea is yelling into the phone. You move it away from your ear a bit. "I already called the police, but they said that you are probably just spending a night with some random guy, and wouldn't listen to me! I told them you don't drink, and that is weird that you were gone, and I had your purse, oh my God, are you alright? Where are you? I'll come pick you up! Wren, are you alright? Whose phone is this? Do I need to bring your bat? Tell me you are alright!" "Thea... Thea... Thea…" She is not listening, an endless shouting and lamenting pouring out of her. You peek at your host, he is smirking and drinking his tea. "Thea, shut it!" You bark and she is finally silent. "I am alright, I think," you peek at him. He lifts his brows. "I am… Where am I?" He gives you the address. "Wait, is that a guy in there? Wren, is it a guy?" "Yes, there is a male person near me, Thea, and I'm fine. I have no money, I can't call a cab, you need to come and get me." He waves his hand to catch your attention and whispers, "I'll pay for your cab." "No, it's OK," you are trying to navigate two conversations with a splitting headache. "Is he asking you to stay?" Thea doesn't sound worried anymore. She is exuberant. "Shut up, Thea," you hiss and turn to him and realize that he is leaving the room. He waves to your dismissively, "I'll be right back." "What is going on in there?" Thea is shouting in your ear again. "Thea, keep it down a bit. I woke up in this flat, there's this guy, nothing happened, he offers to pay for my cab." "Do you want to stay there?" "No! What? Of course not." He comes back into the room with a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers. "I don't have a sealed bottle, but I promise it's ibuprofen." His eyes are laughing. "No, thanks. I'm fine." He shrugs. "It's not that!" Why are you reassuring him? "I'm a ginger, we are not good with drugs."

He lifts his eyes at your hair and suddenly his eyes widen. His lips form an "O" and he darts to the table. He grabs a piece of canvas and a palette. "Don't move, just don't move!" He pins it to another smaller easel by the wall. You freeze and see him frantically squeezing paint from little tubes on the the palette. "It is amazing! The light, the ombre..." He is mumbling and the brush is flying.

You suddenly realize that Thea is yelling in the phone. "Wren, what a hell is going on there?" "I don't know..." "Please, please," his voice is frantic, "I just need a few minutes, maybe half an hour," he is gesturing like crazy with his left hand while the right one is darting around the canvas, "I'll pay you… for the cab and the modeling… Just don't move, bloody hell, that's the one, that's it!" His chest is heaving, he is biting his bottom lip and his hand is dashing onto the canvas and back to the palette. "Please, just don't go..." You don't think he even realizes that you are a real person.

"Thea, I'm fine. He is going to pay for my cab and I'll just go home…" "Don't move!" He barks and you decide to ignore his mad rambling. "...and have a nap. I'll call you later, OK?" "Is he hot? Wren, is the guy hot?!" "Bye, Thea."

You hang up and look at him. Somehow he smeared some orange paint across his forehead. Is your hair really that colour in this light? What are you supposed to do now? He is frowning now, concentrated on the canvas. He waves at a couch by the window without looking at you. "You can sit there. Have some tea," he mutters absent-mindedly, completely absorbed into his work. You shrug and take his mug and the plate.

You finish the tea and biscuits, he is still working. You have had plenty time to scrutinize him, and he is quite something. A stubborn, heavy jaw in a stark contrast to a soft, sensual line of lips. Blazing blue eyes, thick black brows… He constantly jerks them up, frowns, bites the opposite end of his brush, curses under his voice. There is something exceptionally warm and comforting in his presence, though he is bursting with activity. You start feeling sleepy.

You wake up much later, covered with a quilt. He is still working, this time on a bigger easel, on the initial painting of your naked lower half. Orange is gone from his face. The sleeves of the pullover are rolled up, and you admire the muscular forearms, covered with black hair. He shifts his eyes and sees that you are awake. He gives you a distracted smile and returns to the canvas. "I'll be right there. I ordered Chinese, it'll be here in ten." Is he always so nonchalant about everything? Frenzied and excited about the art, and then back to the cool assurance of a big cat. Incredible...

"Do you want a shower?" He is not even looking at you, like at all! "The washroom is through the bedroom." You climb off the couch and walk back into the bedroom. You fleetingly wonder where he slept last night, and then walk to the bathroom. Everything in it is pristine, colour-coordinated, and… beige. You happily shed the clothes and climb the shower booth. It is very big. He is obviously large, but it looks more like it is intended for two. The hot water is plummeting on your head and shoulders , and it is a bliss! An array of shampoos, conditioners and soaps is impressive. No products for a woman, but all high quality and not chosen randomly. You pick and choose, and soon feel like a human being again.

You hear a loud knock at the door, and a sudden panic floods you. You are bonkers, completely bonkers! What are you doing in some random guy's shower?! You suddenly can't breath and press your back into the shower wall. "Hey, you alive there?" His voice sounds genuinely concerned, and you feel panic subsiding. "The food is here, and if you need clothes there are some shirts in the drawers under the sink. Should be long enough for you." "Thanks," you try not to sound too panicked. "De nada," he is laughing at you.

The mentioned shirts are probably his comfy time clothes, they are soft and faded, and you pick the one that seems the longest. It goes down mid thigh. The colour is hardly flattering but it is not like you are on a date.

You step back into the sunroom and the delicious smell of the Chinese take-out tickles your nose. The square white boxes are already arranged on the bar island, chopsticks, plates, napkins, two glasses of water, coasters… Coasters? Really? You shake your head in disbelief and look around. Where is your host? "Hello?" Bollocks, you realize that don't even know his name. There is something seriously wrong with you.

You jump up from surprise when you hear his voice from the bedroom behind you. You were just there! Oh, wait, the third door. You trot back to the bedroom and open the third door. Quite predictably it is a walk-in closet. Quite unpredictable is your host standing in it bare-chested. You freeze and gape. He is holding a black tee in his hand and waits for you to find your bearings. You will your body to move and step back, but not a single muscle in you moves. "You have to decide, love, either in or out!" His low murmuring tone is as suggestive as it gets. You jump up and dart back in the bedroom slamming the door. You hear his rollicking laughter behind it.

You return to the sunroom and plop on a chair by the bar island. You drop your head on your arms on the counter. Your ears and neck are burning from humiliation. Just when you started thinking that this day could not get any weirder, you managed to ogle the guy in the worst possible circumstances. You are screwed, deeply and irrevocably. Because you have a kink. And unfortunately, it is a muscular, hairy, broad male chest.

And his is a dream! It is so glorious, it is simply perfect! The best you have seen for a while, and now you won't be able to look at him even when he is fully dressed. You will know it is there, the hot hard plains of muscles just asking you to bite and kiss, and to scratch with your nails, the thick black hair to tread your fingers through… Oh, your private parts are on fire. And all this majestic epitome of chest perfection is attached to a flat stomach with a glorious strip of black hair going down… Stop, Wren, you are digging your own grave! Do not think about that, don't think about the belt and the buttons… Oh, and the buttons, not a zipper!.. Bloody hell...

You hear rustling, and he comes back to the room. You sit up and school your face into a neutral expression, and you two start eating. To say that it is awkward is an immense understatement. At least for you, nothing apparently unsettles this one. He is thoroughly enjoying his food and isn't trying to start a conversation. You keep your mouth shut as well and concentrate on your dry Schezuan beef. You also avoid looking anywhere but your plate.

You are especially avoiding looking at his jaw when he is chewing, at how his throat is moving when he drinks water, and most of all you are decisively not looking at his clavicles that are so promisingly peeking from the collar of his V-neck! It just had to a be a V-neck! Damn your complete inability to resist a husky male chest! If it is good, and this one is superb, then you start noticing the rest. And everything about him is just delectable!

You could probably seduce him. It's not like he is not attracted to you, he wouldn't be feeding you dinner and flashing toothy grins at you. You are probably sort of a bowl of fruit for him, something to arrange and transfer on canvas, but he is still a man of flesh and blood. But do you want it? Do you want him to wake up the next morning with the same distracted face and politely walk you to the door courteously calling you a cab and paying for it?

You imagine it so clearly that all you lustful daze is suddenly gone and you drop your chopsticks. "Are you alright, love?" You lift your eyes at him with an easy gleeful smile, the spell broken. Ha, you can even look at him and do not feel like you are going to combust. Well, may be a little. "Yeah, sorry. Just lost in my thoughts." Your appetite is back and you pick up a dumpling from a box. "These are actually very good, where is it from?" "Dragon's Bowl," he is looking at you scrutinizingly, obviously having noticed the change in your mood. "Hm, never been there. Do they have dim sum?" "I don't believe so." You take your glass and drink it in a few big gulps.

You pick up another dumpling and bite into it. The juice starts running down your hand and wrist, and you lick it. He makes a throaty growling noise and jumps up on his feet. The chair falls behind him with the bang. You freeze and stare at him in confusion. "Stop it!" He snarls, and he actually looks angry. "Stop what?" You are completely confounded. "I am not made of stone, I can be a gentleman for only that long." It still doesn't seem to register with you. What's he all about? "Decide what you want and stop playing with me."

Where is the relaxed facade? Where are smug smirks and the cocked brow? He is taking short sharp breaths, his fists are clenched, and his stunning eyes are blazing. Red spots are blooming on his cheekbones, nostrils flare. "Either you call yourself a cab right now, or you are getting that glorious little bum of yours off that chair and march into the bedroom!"

Bloody hell, he is turned on! That's him being randy! Wow, that is at least partially terrifying. It's like poking a bear with a stick for a while and then noticing that the cage isn't locked! Except you weren't poking, you didn't do anything! The shirt isn't even that short, and it's not like he hasn't seen it all before!

You contemplate your choices, and slowly slide off the chair. "I'll take the bedroom option." He actually growls like an animal and pounces.

**A/N#2: Who wants part two of this? :)**


	8. Canvas (part 2)

He scoops you up in his arms bridal style and strides to the bedroom. All you can do is wrap your arms around his neck and savour the trip. He kicks the door open and gets to the bed in a few wide steps. He throws you, though pretty carefully, on it and kneeling on the edge pulls his tee off in a swift movement. You scoot back to the headboard and enjoy the view.

He licks his lips and his greedy scorching eyes are roaming you. Oh, that is simply delicious! You get on your knees too and jerk your shirt off as well. Or should you, say his shirt? You are very glad that you dressed up a bit yesterday. The black lacy bra and thongs went well with the dress, and even better they will go with the current happenstances. The feral smirk on his lips is sending shivers down your spine.

He unbuttons his jeans and getting up for a second he sheds them off. My, you thoughts have gone there before, but even considering his height and broad build that definitely exceeds the expectations. And boxer briefs are definitely the icing on the cake. You smile and beckon him closer with your index finger.

No need to ask twice apparently, he leaps ahead and wrapping his arm around your waist he pulls you down and underneath him. He stretches near you balancing on his elbow, his other arm still under you, and his lips are finally on yours.

All possible deities have mercy on you, your toes curl and goosebumps cover your whole body. Hot, hot, hot! He is enthusiastic, creative, and very, very skillful. His lips are warm and his tongue is soon caressing your upper lip, opening your mouth. You busk in the caresses, sucks and nips, but then your usual fervour flares up and you press your palms into his chest. Oh, give me that, give me, give me!

You dig your nails into his skin and he groans. "You are a kinky little one, aren't you?" He sounds very pleased. You push him harder, and he submits. He rolls on his back and you straddle him. Finally, the glorious solid pectoral muscles, explicit clavicles, the valley of coarse black hair, lusciously going down his sternum from a suprasternal notch, and yes, you know all the anatomical terms for the parts, you do your research. Did you mention the kink?

You lower your head and lick his neck. He drops the head back and his large palms squeeze your buttocks. Finally, you've been trying not to imagine this since you saw his hands when he handed you his phone. He bucks his hips up. Down boy, you haven't had your fill yet.

Nails scratching, lips sucking, teeth nipping, and in a few seconds he is panting under you. You snake one of your hands lower and press it into his immensely impressive erection. He hisses and then your bra clasp springs open. That is quite a skill he is showing there! Exactly how many of these a week does he open? You are too far gone to care.

He catches the back of your head with his palm and pulls your lips to his. God, he tastes amazing! You moan into his mouth. He tears his away and rasps, "Do you want to stay up there or should I lead?" "I don't like to be lead," you quip and slide your hand into his pants.

His pelvis jerks into your palm and his hand flies to the bedside table. He is battering a handle of a drawer and finally grabs it. He pulls and yanks it out from the glides. The drawer is left in his hand and the contents scatter over the floor. He lifts his head and looks at the motley objects littering the floor. Laughing, he throws the poor piece of furniture on the floor and looks at you. "Do you mind finding a condom there?" Is there anything that rattles him?

Squeezing his hips tighter with your legs to hold yourself in place, you bend over and stretch down to rummage through the disarrayed junk. Mentally thanking the yoga instructor that always told you that you would need these inner thigh muscles one day, you comb through mints, pencils, scrap paper, a pair of watch and… a glasses case? Wow, this kink has to be stored for later. A condom is peeking from under a side table, and you have to move from him to reach it. You stretch and bend over the edge of the bed, and then his warm weight is pressed into your legs and you feel his lips on your bum. The tongue draws intricate swirls on your skin. "You are distracting me." The beard tickles your cheek and by now you have learnt to recognise that as the feeling of him smiling into your skin. You've never had a bearded man before.

He bites your buttock, you squeak and kick him slightly. He is chuckling, and you finally reach the square wrapper. You blindly shove your hand towards him. He gets the message and pulls you up on top of him again.

You kiss his chest again but quickly start sliding lower. Maybe some more of the hunky goodness next time, you have somewhere to be now. He lifts his hips and his pants fly across the room behind you. You appraise and thank the generous laws of genetics!

His cock is a work of art. Long, thick, smooth, the colour and the curve exquisite, it is anything a girl can dream of. You close your lips around it and can't control a moan. There something about his skin that drives you completely berserk. Whether it is the fresh grassy flavour, or the heat, but you are losing your mind. You dip your head lower and he growls. The noises you have heard from him so far are so salaciously animalistic that you want to find out what else is there in his repertoire.

You suck harder and he is clutching the sheets. His thick head slips deep into your throat and you tense the muscles of your esophagus. "Fuck!" He cries out and his hips jump up. You choke and have to let him go. You lick your lips and cock your brow, "If you don't control yourself, you are going to strangle me." He wipes his face with his palm and breathes out. "I think I am past any control at this stage."

He suddenly sits up in an impressive fluid motion and picks you up under your arms. He pulls you to lie over him and asks, "Up or down?" "Huh?" "Top or bottom, love?" Choices, choices…

And then you really surprise yourself, "Bottom." You definitely always prefer top. You cherish the control and the dominance. You are also small, and more often than not you feel slightly suffocated. This untamed beast is going to crush and mash you! What are you doing, Wren?

He rolls you underneath him and slides his palms under your shoulder blades. His lips are on your stomach and his talented tongue is drawing some searing twirls on it. To think of it, he might actually be drawing something particular. He pulls your thongs off and they fly in the general direction of the rest of the clothes. After nuzzling your stomach, which you think is adorable, he dips his tongue in your curls. You gasp and raise your pelvis. His hands are on your buttocks and he lifts you even higher. And then he proceeds with the best cunnilingus you have ever received. The technique, the thoroughness, the creativity! You come screaming, your hips high in the air, your back arching, your weight on your elbows. You drop your shoulders on the sheets, and he slowly lowers you.

Your vision does not return right away. Blood is roaring in your ears, and you see merry purple dots in front of you. He didn't even use his hands! It was all done with lips and tongue, and you think you will never, never again be satisfied with the pathetic excuses of oral sex that most men manage.

He wipes his beard and smiles to you. "Another minute, love?" Oh, you smug bastard! You grab his ears and pull him up. He guffaws and places a row of hot little kisses up your stomach and sternum. He tilts his head and sucks on your throat. One of his palms covers your breast and the index finger and the thumb caress the nipple. Then he replaces them with lips, shifts his weight on this arm while the other one is caressing the other breast.

You are writhing, delectable shivers running through your spine, and you are not even a big fan of boob action. Then you realize what is different with him. He is careful. Your pale skin is sensitive, it bruises easily, and men tend to grab. He is applying just the right amount of pressure. The pulps of his fingers are warm and gentle, and even if he bites he is considerate. You arch into him and moan.

You think it is time to up the stakes. You blindly find the condom and grab a handful of his hair. You get momentarily distracted by the majesticness of the wavy, silky strands. That's a hell of work to groom this mane! The hair is definitely taken good care of. You shake off the professional interest and pull at the tresses. He lifts his face and you waggle the condom in front of his nose. You receive an already familiar lopsided grin and he shifts up.

He supports his weight above you and you quickly roll the condom out over his cock. You might be fondling him a wee bit on the way. Judging by a low rumble in his delectable chest, he doesn't mind. You wrap your legs around him and he presses into you. His whole body jerks when his tip touches your folds and then he starts slowly pushing in. You hiss. He freezes. The muscles on his arms are bulging from restrain but he doesn't move.

He catches your lips in a surprisingly tender kiss and thenpresses his forehead into yours. You exhale and he starts moving. Your walls stretch painfully and you gasp. He stops again. "Alright, love?" His voice is raspy with strain. You nod and smile. Under your hands you feel his body trembling. That is a hell of a self-restrain and you feel warm gratitude. You lift your face to him and kiss him greedily. He sheaths into you fully, and you cry out softly. That is a bliss!

He slowly rocks his hips and you whimper from the electrical shock running through your body. You dig your nails into his shoulders and breathe out, "Bloody hell!" He hums as if agreeing with your assessment and thrusts more energetically. You grab his splendid backside and sink your nails into his buttock. "More!" He picks up speed, and from there on, it's all deep incisive thrusts and your loud screams.

Under no circumstances you are going to say that at this moment you feel suffocated. You feel exuberant! You meet him midway, lifting your hips from the sheets, and you feel like you are being worshiped. Each push of his hot heavy body into you is an epitome of carnal pleasure. He stretches you to the limit, and your body is on fire. You bury your hands into his luscious hair and caress his nape. His lips are lavishing kisses on your mouth, neck, jaw, even ears. With a high pitch scream you climax, and he follows you in a dead heat.

Your orgasm is perfect, hot and sweet, flooding your senses, singing in your blood. You close you eyes and ride the wave. He is moaning and breathes into your neck. When some feeling returns into your overheated body, you try to move away from his tickling gasps. You shift and your hips jerk. He grounds his pelvis into you harder. "Please don't." You start giggling. Such civilized manners! He chuckles into your neck.

You feel his lips on your skin, and uncontrollable shudder runs through you. Your inner walls clench, and he groans. He slowly pulls out with a hiss and rolls on his back. He is sprawled on his enormous bed and stares at the ceiling. You turn on your side and look at him. The thick lush lashes flutter, and he closes his eyes. How did you not notice the marvellous nose before? You lift your hand and run the tip of your finger down the gorgeous bridge of his long nose. The corners of his mouth twitch but he stays still.

"Where did you sleep last night?" For the love of you, you don't know what makes you ask it now. He slightly opens one eye and looks at you sideways. "In the studio on the sofa. Though it wasn't easy, I have to say," he smirks, "You were making a compelling case." That does not sound good. He turns his face to you. Now you are blushing, Wren? You just shagged the guy from soup to nuts and now you are feeling shy? "What did I do?" "You stripped, rather gracefully for a drugged person by the way, and offered me, and I quote, a night of unforgettable passion, no strings attached."

You tense. Not that you were imagining a white dress, a three-tier cake and church bells, but isn't it a bit too early to tell you to kick rocks? He is looking at you with a lazy smile on his lips but then notices your stiff posture. He frowns in confusion and says, "I swear I took the sofa. I checked on you later, thus the painting, but I didn't try anything funny." He thinks it is supposed to cheer you up, apparently.

You sit up and pull the sheet over your chest. Suddenly you don't feel like an all-powerful sex goddess from just a few minutes ago, but a cheap slut. You had one-night stands before, no biggie. Why do you feel like crying now? What's wrong with you? OK, Wren, you can do it, you had drama classes at uni.

You smile to him and climb off the bed, in a toga of a sheet. "I just need a minute on a washroom," your tone is even and friendly. Good, you are fine, breath through it, just walk to the bathroom, steady steps, Wren, don't rush it.

You close the door behind you and sink to the floor. What is going on? You are in a full scale panic mode, breathing laboured, pulse throbbing in your throat. Where is this coming from? It is not that hard, you know the drill, you get dressed, he calls you a cab, doesn't take your number, promises to call. Before today the scenarios were pretty much the same. Mediocre to decent sex, slightly awkward aftermath, you pick up your clothes from the floor and go home, since you don't bring them to your place after all, so that you have the freedom to leave any moment. You pretend to have had fun and feel relieved. Or if you have had fun, you still give a fake number if they ask and go on with you life. Easy peasy. What's different this time? The sex was great, that's a given, still not a reason to feel like he pulled your soul out of you and stomped on it repeatedly. You chose to stay, you had fun, now get up from his floor and go home.

You splash some cold water on your face and bite your lip. The dress is crumpled on the floor where you threw it before the shower, and you pick it up. You plaster a friendly smile on your face and step out of the bathroom. He is sitting on the bed, obviously having cleaned up and is playing with your earring. Your hand flies to your ear. "I am going to need that, please," you are all amicability and politeness. You pick up your bra from the floor and stand in front of him. You stretch your hand for the earring and keep your face pleasantly benign. He closes his fist around it and looks at you. He is not smiling.

"I would like to draw you more." You'd rather cut off your legs than ever come back into his flat. "Sure, you should call me sometime, I'm sure I can find some time for it." You feel you will start crying in t minus three minutes. You see your knickers peeking from under an armchair and grab them. Then you turn around to go to the bathroom, but he jumps off the bed and follows you. Are you supposed to get dressed in front of him? You suddenly feel that there is no force in this world that can make you unwrap yourself in front of him from the sheet that you are, frankly speaking, clutching to your chest. "Can I have some privacy, please?" You attempt to sound like it is a light joke but your voice sounds panicked. He scrutinizes your face. For a second you think he is going to refuse, and what are you to do then? But he pushes his body from the wall he is leaning on and goes back into the bedroom. You breath out and hastily get dressed.

"Can I have your phone, please? For the cab," you are starting to feel nauseated. "It's in the studio." He is back on the bed and he is not looking at you. Just like you predicted before you lost any sense and jumped his bones. Predicted and decided that it was not for you. Isn't Wren a smart girl?

You pick up the phone and stare at the photo. Oh hell, a tear falls on the screen, and you realize if he walks into the room now, you are screwed. There will be no stopping for the pethetic sobs and runny nose. You will be humiliated, he will feel awkward. You drop the phone on the counter and dash towards what you think is the entrance door. Your shoes are on the floor and you grab them. You jerk the door but it's locked. You start tugging on a lock but you seem to be doing something wrong. The cursed knob doesn't move. You feel sobs rising and bite you lip.

"What are you doing?" He sounds vexed, and you press your forehead into the door. OK, last chance to save some dignity. Pull yourself together, Wren. Just get out of the flat and you can cry in the first available corner. Cab will do too. You are still pressing your head into the door and blindly put on your shoes. "Can you please open this door?"

"No," his voice is low. "Open the door." "No." "Open the door damn you!" You swirl around and turn your burning face to him, angry tears running down your cheeks. "Not until you explain what the hell is going on," his face is dark, eyebrows drawn together. You didn't think this face can be so grim. He is glowering, his eyes cold, lips pressed together in a hard line. "I just want to go home." You are pitiful, Wren, plain pathetic.

"Are you in a sudden rush? No time to even call a cab?" His voice is venomous, and you start shaking. And right away you get very, very angry. You have nothing to be ashamed of, you don't owe him any explanations. "Open the door." Good, get angry, fight it, Wren. He shakes his head and comes closer. He stops in front of you, and you shrink away. He is only wearing jeans, buttons still open, and you feel cornered. The heat and anger are radiating from him. "No." "Open it!" You are yelling and he slams his hand into the door near your head. "No damn it!" He is bearing his teeth, his snarl terrifying.

And then he steps back and takes a few deep breaths. You are frozen, with your back pressed into the door. "I am sorry, I shouldn't have," he shakes his head seemingly to clear his mind. He looks at you, you are probably blanched. "I am sorry, really. I have temper. Artistic temperament, and shite," he smiles joylessly. "It's OK," you lick your lips. You are scared to ask him to let you out again.

"I just don't understand what's wrong. Everything was great, we seemed to get along, and now you are running," he does seem lost. What are you supposed to do now, apologise for confusing him? "I am sorry too, it's probably PMS, hormones and stuff." Good approach, Wren, men are scared of female physiology, he will probably push your out of the door himself now. "I honestly just want to go home, it's been a long day."

He gives you a long stare and nods. "You still should call a cab. We can have tea while you wait," he is really trying to be civilized. "Sure." He heads towards the second door and you go back and pick up his phone. "Can you give me a hand here?" You follow him through the second door to a spacious kitchen, all gleaming lights and chrome. It looks like another picture from a home renovations magazine. He is standing by a counter his back to you. You cough to let him know you are there but he doesn't turn. "Yes?"

"I don't want you to go," his voice is quiet. "Sorry?" He turns around and you see a set jaw and dark eyes. "It doesn't have to end like this. We can make it work." "Work?" You are so confused that you just parrot what he says. "Do you have someone?" He shakes his head dismissively, "Doesn't matter. I'm sure I can do better." "What?" "Do you have a boyfriend?" he presses on. He is imposing even from another end of the kitchen. "No. I don't have anyone. I wouldn't sleep with you if I did." "Great, less work for me. You should stay," he is calm and collected now, and you suddenly feel dizzy. "Maybe spend a couple days here, get to know me. It'll be worth it." He is absolutely serious! And insane apparently. "What?" "What do you have to lose?" Does he seriously expect an answer to this? He gets increasingly irritated. "Listen, we obviously click. The sex is great, which is rare on its own. But don't tell me you don't feel how different it is. I'm not ready to give it up. We should give it a go."

Right… You head feels empty, you literally have nothing to say. "Oh sod it, say something. I'm baring my soul to you here." That actually stirs you out of your stupour. "You told me that we click and that the sex was great. Hardly bearing your soul in my opinion," you sound peevish. You feel peevish. And ecstatic, but he doesn't need to know about it. "Damn it, what do you want me to say?!" He rubs the back of his neck in aggravation. He is obviously not used to being emotionally compromised. He is flustered and you find it adorable. Adorable, Wren? Are you a fourteen year old with a crush? "We'll be great together, it just makes sense. I'm sure you feel it too, so let's do it." It's like he is buying a car! "Well?"

"You can start with your name," you hold your positions. "Didn't interest you before. Are you staying?" He starts moving closer. "Of course not, you are obviously bonkers. You just offered me to stay in here for a few days and get to know you." You think you might be smiling way too wide. "I stand corrected, it is a great plan." You have to press your palm into his chest to keep some space between your bodies. "And am I supposed to wear your shirts this whole time?" "You won't wear anything," he is murmuring now and two large hands lie on the counter on your sides. "I have a job." "Hm..." he is humming unconcerned and lowers his lips to your neck. You press both palms into his chest. It is purely symbolic, because there is no way in hell you could stop this mass from advancing if he didn't want you to. He halts and peers into your eyes. You are giving him a stern look.

He sighs and straightens. "What do you want to know? It's John, thirty eight, born in April, parents in Manchester, one sister, allergic to shellfish. I paint. Occasional shag, nothing serious for a while. Alright?" He seems to be convinced that the deal is done. "Aren't you going to ask anything about me?" "Not really. I know everything I need."

You place your palm on his quickly approaching lower half of the face. The beard tickles your skin. "Seriously? Like nothing? Are my tits and bum all that interest you?" He predictably drops his eyes in your cleavage. "No, but I already know everything I need." "Really?" He straightens again and looks down at you with laughing eyes. "You are sexy, but not a slut. You are fun but you have principles. You watch a lot of _Doctor Who_ and you are either a hairdresser or work with fabrics." What?! "Your nails," he picks up your hand and rubs his thumb on your knuckles. "Short, and slightly coloured." He kisses the tips of your fingers, and you understand that he won. "I don't watch _Doctor Who_." "Of course you do," his seals the deal with a kiss. You do.


	9. Breastfeeding

**A/N: Yay, the prompts are getting more challenging! :) This one is for those of you who wanted Thea and Fili to end up together in "Bombur." It's short but I like it anyways! :)**

"How long can it take? It is a very small baby!" Killian is leaning on the wall and pouts. "You don't have to stay here, go wander around," Phil is rummaging through the diaper bag. "Yeah, and then I will have to run around the mall looking for you guys. No, I'm staying here and will just wait. His stomach is probably a size of a plum. He will be full in no time." "I wouldn't hope for that," you are laughing at male ignorance. "He might take his time and savour the meal." Killian freezes, lost in his thoughts. Phil smacks his brother at the back of his head. "Stop thinking about my girlfriend's breasts." "We are standing in front of a nursing room, you prick! How do you expect me to think about anything else?" Phil gives him another smack. "Where is Uncle anyways?" "He is getting Wren a chai latte," Phil finally finds a burp cloth. You think you hear Killian muttering "whipped" under his breath. You smack him too. "Ow!" "Don't be such a baby." Phil knocks at the door. "Babe, do you need a burp cloth?" "No, we are fine, almost done," Thea's voice is cheerful, "I'm starving now." Killian perks up. "Me too." "Nobody cares," Phil is zipping up the bag. John walks up to you with your cup. "We are almost done," you take it gratefully. He hums and leans on the wall near you. "How long does it normally take?" "Depends," Phil yawns and rubs his eyes. "Last night it just went on and on." You smirk and turn to John. "See these bags under his eyes and overall half-conscious disposition? That's you in three months." He smiles and pecks your lips. "Can't wait for it.'


	10. Sweet

**A/N: For lamje. Thank you for the prompts! The smutty one for "swimming" is under construction :)**

W:

"Wren, you have to go and see him. You will be fine, he is just so sweeeeeet! An absolute sweetheart! really, a sweetie pie!" Thea's voice is all lilting and melodic. Slightly dreamy too, which means Dr. Thorington is probably a hottie. "Thea, I don't care if he is as sweet as honey sprinkled with edible ball bearings! I'm not going to your voodoo doctor." "Wren, he is not a voodoo doctor, the whole world goes for acupuncture these days. It's a centuries old medical practice!" "Needles, Thea, needles! Have you forgotten my fear of needles?!" "Wren, you can't turn your head. You have been staying home, probably in the same position, of three days now. May be it's time to toughen up and get some help." "I'll think about it." "No, none of that. I'll give you their number and if you don't go today, I'll drag your sorry ass there tomorrow myself." "Don't insult my ass..." You grumble, surrendering to the inevitable. "We both know I love your bouncy little bum. Now, are you going or not?" "Alright, I'll go see your sweet, sweet Dr. Thorington."

T:

The day is shite. It is bloody pish! If another pillock comes and says that he just needs massage and needles but is not going to do anything about his poxey weak muscles and disgusting diet, so you just need to fix him quickly, you are going to smash a vase onto his head. Or if another chavvy bleached chick comes with a bag of candies in her purse and asks for needles to lose "a couple pounds" you will just jump out of the window. Manky job, manky town, barmy muppets!..

W:

The office is nice and a bit too posh to your taste. The receptionist is as haughty as the Queen's corgis. Or is it because you just feel that all Brits are haughty? She might not even be British, maybe it's just Thea's sweetheart John Thorington is a Limey. She leads you to a pristine room and you climb on a table hissing from the pain in your neck. Why noone ever thinks about shorties when they make these? It's like PhysEd in the sixth grade all over again. When you are finally perched on the table, you feel like an idiot, with your feet dangling like those of a five year old on a bus. The door opens with a bang to the opposite wall and the sweetheart Dr. Thorington storms in.

T:

Great, another one of these hippies! You wonder if she is here to talk about energy streams surging through her body or her third chakra is clogged. The plonker plastic square glasses, short, almost shaved sides of her head, longer strands on top. What kind of a moron cuts such hair? It's silky, wavy and the brightest orange you have ever seen. It would look so nice falling on her shoulders. Although she is probably a man hater and does it to prove that she has unconventional understanding of beauty. Like the other hundreds of them, muppets.

W:

"G'day, what can I do for you?" He probably has a very nice voice, except he is snarling through clenched teeth. "Um… Hello?" He lifts his eyes at you. The thick black brows are drawn together and nostrils flare. Those are very, very beautiful eyes. "So, what seems to be bothering you?" He sticks his long nose back into your chart. "My neck hurts and I can't turn my head."

T:  
Overdid yoga, didn't we? Probably after a three day cleanse and talking to trees. She has nice eyes though, big, brown, a smile hiding in them. Sure, John, it is exactly what you need. Getting all hot and bothered over a pretentious bird who is also a patient!

W:

"Turn to your right." Is he kidding you? You just said you can't. You are glaring at him but he doesn't even look up. The pause stretches and he finally lifts his eyes at you. "I can't. It doesn't turn either way. And it hurts." He sets the chart near you on the table and gets up. That explains the height of the table! God, he is huge!

T:

She has an exquisite neck, long and graceful. The jaw bones are delicate, skin pale and ethereal. Bollocks, are you getting randy over touching a woman's throat? Then you definitely chose a wrong profession, you tosser. "What happened?"

W:

"I don't know. I guess I just moved clumsily, and it sort of pulled, and it was very painful." He is looking at you with a very annoyed face. Did he expect a precise diagnosis? Damn it, Jim, I am Botanist, not a doctor! "Where were you when it sort of pulled?" Can his tone be more sarcastic?

T:

She chews on her lip, and is that a blush? "I was lying down... On my bed... On my back…. And I stretched my arms above my head, and it sort of happened." Bloody fuck, you did not need this visual! You move away from her cautiously. Blimey, she smells nice. Can she tell that you are holding your breath? She swallows, and the gentle throat moves.

W:

Can he tell that you are super embarrassed right now? Maybe not, since he buried his nose into your papers again. He looks even more pissed now. In the normal sense "pissed", not British "pissed". The jaw is set, and muscles move on the sides of it under the thick black beard. You are not much for facial hair, but that's one hell of a fine beard. Maybe he won't ask and you won't have to tell him that you were reaching for an Oreo when it happened.

T:

"Where you participating in any physical activity prior to it?" Sure, tell me how you were shagging some vegan coffee shop barista, who is definitely the next Kerouac. Or whatever the rebellious youth reads these days. "I was biking that morning, might have been slightly dehydrated from it, to think of it…" Is it some new term for bonking that you are not familiar with?

W:

He lifts his unbelievable eyes at you. "Biking?" "Yes, from the university. But it's just a city bike, nothing hardcore, not the Tour de France thing." You try to gesture the handlebars of a race bike in the air. He looks peevish and confused. And then he stares at your hands frozen mid-air.

T:

"What were you doing at the University?" Great, it sounded like you doubt she has enough brain cells to have any business there. "I mean, did you lift anything heavy?"

W:

"No, I just water flowers, the can is rather small." Great, it sounds like you are a janitor! Not that there is anything wrong with being a janitor, but aren't doctors famously snobbish about people's education?

T:

Alright, John, pull yourself together! Sod it, just do the exam and put the needles in. She obviously pulled it and you just need to loosen the muscles and nerves. Bollocks, her skin and elegant shoulders feel so good under your hands. Your fingers slide on her nape and she suddenly closes her eyes. "Does it hurt?" The giant eyes fly open and she blushes furiously. "No." You see the blush spreading down into her cleavage, and you just can't do it anymore.

W:

You are melting under his hot palms, your eyes close, and it takes all your concentration to stop your chest from heaving. And there you always thought it is a cliche from romantic novels and an Elizabeth Bennet type of thing. He is standing between your spread legs, and all you can think of is wrapping them around him and grabbing the collar of his white shirt. You can clearly imagine jerking his shirt open and the buttons scattering around the room. He suddenly stops touching you and practically jumps back from you. No, please, come back!

T:

"I am referring you to Dr. Slovak in the _Meridian Clinic_." That's the end of your self-control and you clench your teeth. Give up, John! Just accept it, you are screwed, there is no point in fighting it!

W:

What?! "Sorry?" "I am referring you to a different doctor. I would like to ask you out and it is against doctor-patient relationships ethics." He blurts it out in a very angry tone. As if you insulted him and now he is telling you to get out. The meaning of his words doesn't reach you brain right away. "You are asking me out?" He looks at you under the frowned brows. He looks like that grumpy dwarf from Snowhite, "Yes."

T:

"OK." She is smiling and her shapely legs with adorable tiny feet are dangling. Blimey, she is gorgeous! You are fighting the urge to touch the short orange fluff above her ear. There is only one thing left to sort out. "So how exactly did you sprain your neck?"

W:

Shit.


	11. Dive into the Blue

**A/N: I was given a prompt "swimming" and this happened :) it is not exactly swimming, and not smutty as it was supposed to be. So I'll just leave it here and will think about "swimming" some more**

Everyone freezes, and then van Buuren picks up the crowd and bounces it around the club. The bodies lifted, vibrating, hands and arms receive jolts and send them to the spines. And up and through!... You arch your back and lift your face to the myriads of stars there, behind the dark roof, where the universe is calling you. And down! Everybody drops and you let the rhythm clench at your heart and whirl you into the neverending high!

A face materializes in front of you out of the dimness of the club, and you smile. The guy has extraordinary eyes, bright blue and laughter is rollicking in them, like the little tickles of flirty silver fish in a spring. He moves like a drop of mercury, surprising grace in the wide shoulders and muscular chest. You bite your lip and lift your arms above his shoulders. He moves closer, and you let this moment decide the destiny of this night. He keeps an electrifying inch between your bodies, and you smile in approval. You are moving, together but not too close, and the rhythm is pumping through your veins. You synchronize and share the bliss of movement.

Later you are buying your own drink and just can't stop appreciating the eyes. They cyan, cerulean, carolina, celeste and cobalt. In the everchanging beams of light in the club they are glorious. The rest is fine too, strong jaw, prominent nose, kissable lips, but they are just not doing it for you. You sip your drink and smile to him. He leans in and yells his name. You nod without hearing and finish your drink. Then you hook the collar of his tee with your index finger and momentarily having appreciated the raspiness of thick chest hair you pull him to the dancefloor. He smirks lopsidedly and follows.

The night is ending and you spent the last two hours with him. You hate that it has to end, because now you have to destroy the synchronicity of your bodies that has been pumping endorphins into your blood and break it to him. Dancing yes, anything else no. You step out into the brisk air outside the club and turn to him.

He is smiling, and he is nice and maybe… but no. "Listen," he smirks, damn, the voice is raspy and the most delicious of molasses, but he is just not that, "Listen, love, it was nice but I'm not interested in continuing. Do you want me to catch you a cab or you are staying here?" You are surprised to notice a prickle of indignation in you. You guess it shows. "You are super hot and a glorious dancer, but I have a girlfriend. Just couldn't pass you there, on the floor." You chuckle at yourself, smile widely and reply, "Get me a cab." He courteously opens the door and leans in. "No hard feelings?" "Don't flatter yourself." The cab starts moving and you yell through the open window, "What's your name again?" "Phil."

You bump into each other in a coffee shop couple weeks later. His girlfriend is a six feet two replica of a Barbie. He smiles and you point at her with your eyes, "Tell me she has a wonderful personality." "She thinks China is wee bit to the north of Ireland," you can finally appreciate the Northern accent now. "Well, then your loyalty becomes yet more inestimable." "What can I say, I'm a good guy." "Phil!" a low rumble rolls through the shop and electricity jolts through your spinal cord. "Yeah, Uncle, just a sec." Phil picks up his tray with three cups, and you are pinned to the spot.

"Let me give you a hand with that," the same palatine blue eyes but on this face everything just ticks. The dark instead of blonde, the longer nose, the most glorious jaw. The lopsided smirk just a bit more wicked, the lips that you can just imagine to lick, and black hair peeking out of the collar of a shirt. "Don't leave me there alone," he whispers and then sees you. The black pupils flood the tufts blue irises, and Bob's your uncle.


	12. Swimming

**A/N: Ha, I did it! Somehow this prompt just wouldn't cooperate, it took a while! But here you are! Enjoy! I wrote all I had received! Bring on some more! :)**

It all happened because you didn't listen. Or according to your sister, because you never listen. As if!.. As Di said later on, shaking her head in disbelief, the arguing and heated discussions had been going on for months before the party. You vaguely remember Phil's barking shouts piercing your concentration over breakfast, but the two tossers have been squabbling since the day they brought Killian from the hospital. There might have been additional decibels in Phil's voice, but you had a case.

You had the Case. Everything else had to wait, the merger was all that bloody mattered. Then Killian smashed his car. You handed him the checkbook and the dealer's card. You really had no time to look into it. He wasn't drunk, he was reckless, no one got harmed. He is a pillock, you would deal with it when the case was closed.

The party was black tie in some resort and spa, you even spent extra time choosing the dressing jacket and the cufflinks. You took Phil with you, it's his case too. You discussed with the partners whether to invite your posh bugger of a client to the office for this conversation but propositioning him in the casual circumstances seemed wiser. A birthday party for his daughter-in-law seemed like it would help him to loosen up a bit and pull that stick out of his arse.

Mingling, that is what you are doing when the first shouts erupt. You see Phil's face blanche, and that's when it becomes obvious that you really should have listened. Blood is trickling from the client's son's nose, and people are dragging Killian away from him. Fucking bloody fuck! You see Phil rushing to him. Someone is trying to restrain the blond tosser from punching your nephew's face in return, and you see his father's butthurt face. The nostrils flare, the poxy black brows drawn together, and all this shite! Can he look any more posh?

You help Phil drag thrashing Killian outside. "What is wrong with you?!" You should not be shouting. The boy is obviously pissed, tears in his eyes, looks like a beaten up pup. He is mumbling something unintelligible and starts toppling over. Phil is supporting his weight, "He said she promised to leave the fucker. And Killian thinks he is forcing her to stay." There is obviously some drama going on in here, you really don't have time for this.

You vaguely remember the wife, a redhead, saw her once at some tennis match. Again, everyone wears giant hats and glasses there. You need to fix it. Bollocks! Last thing you need right now is a cougar drama with the client's daughter-in-law. You won't let the bint botch up your merger.

Killian is wailing openly. "She wants to kill the baby. Why would she do that to me?" You freeze and then grab his shoulders. "What did you say?!" He is sobbing. You give him a shake. "Killian, what baby?!" "She said she'll take care of it…" He has his mother's eyes, and you see red. "She didn't even ask me..."

You push him towards his brother and rush back into the house. You storm through the rooms and see the fucker in the patio. He is pressing a napkin to his nose, and a small redhead in front of him is gesturing wildly, her naked back in a red dress, white shoulder blades. He lowers his head and stares at his shoes.

You really should learn to control your temper... but not today. Unlike your nephew, you don't waste time on yelling. You bestow him with a short punch and hear his long posh nose unpleasantly crack with a squelching sound. Then you grab the chick's upper arm. "Listen, missy..."

You don't have time to say anything when she tries to jerk her arm out of your clenching hand, but you are holding her tight, and the momentum twirls you both. You are so angry that you are slightly unstable on your feet, and you both start keeling. At the very last moment you realize that you were standing on the edge of a pool, and the panic comes.

You are falling backwards and pulling her with you. Your back hits the cold blue water, and a silent scream bursts out of you. Your eyes are open, and you see the bubbles rushing out of your lungs. And then the madness hits. You are thrashing, the old forgotten terror kicking in. When you were five, you fell off your father's boat, and water is the stuff of your worst nightmares.

It pours into your mouth, into the throat, lungs. Instead of moving your arms and trying to get out you are taking giant gulps of water, and feel that it is the end. It is all pain and cold. Something red flashes in the water in front of your eyes, and you are pulled up and out by a pair of small strong hands.

People help her to pull you out of the water, and you are coughing on the floor. You think you are going to cough your bloody lungs out, the amount of water you are spitting out seems improbable. She is sitting on the floor near you, and you suddenly realize that she is rubbing your back. "It's alright, you're alright..." She is actually trying to comfort you!

You are finally capable of lifting your eyes from the nauseating piles on the floor. Her eyes are giant, bright hazel colour, and they are worried and warm. "Are you alright, Mr. Thorington? John?" You take a shuddering breath in and nod.

The father is addressing the guests, the son is standing with his head tilted back, another napkin pressed to his face, and you are dizzy. Like a chick from a Jane Austen novel, shaky and disoriented. People help you get up, and she is dragging you away. "Common, you need to take the clothes off, you are going to get sick." You can hardly remember where you are.

She pushes you in a room and disappears somewhere. Then she shoves a towel into your hands, and she is gone again. You are standing in the middle of a room like a complete plonker and can't stop shaking. She is back in a tee and jeans. "You haven't even moved!" And she starts dragging your jacket off your shoulders. You let her and her fingers are working on the buttons of your waistcoat.

You come to your senses when she is dragging the shirt off you. "Wait… What are you?..." "It's alive!" Her eyes are warm and smiling. "You had me worried there, Mr. Thorington." She deftly takes the cufflinks out and the wet shirt falls on the floor. She shoves a jumper into your hands. "Common, I'll try to find you a pair of trousers!" "I'm not wearing some bloke's trousers," you are cold and the sweater looks so warm, but you bloody would never!... "They are new, it is a tailoring place," she is smiling. You look around and realize you are in a spacious changing room. She is laughing at your shocked face, "I'll be charging you for the carpet cleaning too."

She disappears again and you pull the jumper on. It is soft, and you promise yourself to shop here later. The door creaks, and you see her hand sneaking in. She throws you a pair of trousers. A small box with, you presume, underwear follows. Everything fits. In a minute a pair of socks smacks you to the head. If she is not looking, how come she hits the target?

Suddenly it seems very funny. And you start laughing. And you can't bloody stop. You sink on a small sofa by the wall and press your palms to your eyes. The laughter, or sobbing, is bursting out, and she is instantly sitting near you, her hot little hand rubbing your nape. "It's alright, alright," and then she pulls you into her, and you bury your face into her neck, her hair wet. The little palm is rubbing your shoulder blades, and you are surprised that you breath easier.

"It's alright… Phil mentioned you were aquaphobic..." You slowly breathe her smell a bit more and then lift your face. "Phil?" "Yeah, we go to pub together, I helped him with the dinner jacket. I'm Wren? Mr. Balinson's assistant? The tailor?" She thinks you are supposed to know who she is. "Wait, you are not her?.." You sound like a moron, and you fancy yourself a lawyer.

"Who her?" "Oropherson's daughter-in-law." "Eva? You grabbed me because you thought I was her?" Then the understanding dawns. "Is it about Killian? Oh, bugger, he doesn't know, right?" She is frowning. "You lost me," you feel much better, think faster, her hot little hand still stroking your spine becomes more distracting. "They separated, she was going to talk to Killian today. Just stayed for the party, for Oropherson's guests," she makes a funny disgusted face, "Posh albino pillock!" You guffaw.

She has exquisite skin, delicate clavicles, and you think you will just say that it was adrenaline, and you weren't thinking straight, though you definitely are. You grab the back of her head and pull her lips to yours. You will let her go as soon as she pushes you away, but you just can't help it. She moans into your mouth and treads her fingers in your hair. Then she practically moves on your lap and bites your bottom lip. You deepen the kiss, and she straddles you. Her lips are soft but she is demanding, and then she pushes your shoulders away. You are panting like after a marathon. "The door doesn't lock here."

You head is swimming, and you just need her, now. She jumps off the sofa and stretches a hand towards you. She pulls you up and drags you into a closet. She locks the door behind her, why do they have locks inside closets? And then she pushes you on a low table with fabric rolls. Some of them fall on the floor, she quickly straddles you. You finally have full access to her lips, and she is divine. The tee and your sweater fly off, she has perky small breasts, they fit in your hand perfectly. The flies unzipped, she jumps off and drags the denim off her. The tiny lacy knickers follow, and you grab her, one hand in her orange curls, another dips a finger in her. She is so wet, that you groan and bite her lip. She pushes her hand in and squeezes your cock. Fuck! Bloody fucking fuck!

And then suddenly she jumps back, clicks the lock and you are alone in the closet, trousers open, your cock sticking out of your fly. What the bloody?.. She tumbles in again, the lock clicks, and she tears on a square package with her teeth. Quick confident movements of her palms, and she is sinking on you. Bugger, she is tight.

She is moving, you are bobbing her on your hips, her hot walls making your groan loudly, and she is tossing her head back, delicate throat under your lips. You seem to be leaving teeth marks, but she is driving you completely bonkers. Soft skin, slender shoulder blades, nails digging in your shoulders. And the sexiest little gasps you have ever heard in your life! She comes with a sob, and you follow in a jiffy. You squeeze your eyes. It's been awhile, and feels like it's never been that good.

She is sagging down, gentle cheek on your shoulder, and now it's you stroking her back. You don't know what to say. You are a lawyer, bugger! Common, you have to have something to convince her to stay. You need to keep her. You need this. Not saying that forever, but then again, why not?.. Sod it! She hardly looks like a trollop that shags clients in this closet every day. Common, ask her out, dinner or something. She'll say yes.

She straightens up and stares directly into your eyes. "Mr. Thorington, I'm asking you out. Properly, like a dinner or something. I want a date," she nods firmly, and a small curl above her eyes bobs. Then she proudly lifts her chin. "I want _**to**_ date. You. And before you say anything," you weren't going to, you are just smiling like a dimwit. "I don't care that you are that poxy super lawyer, and the bloody age difference... I know it is a great idea, and it will be perfect. We will work." She is done and is practically glaring at you. You consider different answers but then you just kiss her. Talking is overrated.


	13. Dive into the Blue (Continuation)

**A/N: The prompt was "hammer and nail". Thank you, lamje! But all I could think of was "If all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail", since the Dwarves are so narrow-minded and judgemental. And it's smut! Enjoy, my lovelies!**

"Riley, that's my Uncle John." "It's Wren, and nice to meet." You shake a large solid hand, and it is like sticking a fork into an electric socket. "Likewise," the voice is sinful, a hot wave licks your nape, "Are you joining us?" "Sure, she is," Phil grabs your cup from the counter, and you follow them to the table.

The girl's name is Bri, and you feel like asking where she lost the "anne" part. Then you mentally kick yourself, you are the last person to joke about people's names. She has complicated makeup and a lilting voice. She also definitely does not have a major in Geography. You silently drink your coffee through her musings on "the funny names of the coffee sizes". "So is _venti _very large?" "It's twenty, ounces that is," John's eyes are on you, and you smile to him over the rim of the cup. He licks the cappuccino foam off his bottom lips, and damn, you just imagine nibbling on it. "But then why is _grande grande_? It is big, right? Shouldn't it be ten, like a half of it?" Phil is patting her hand, way too condescendingly to your taste. "They are just being pretentious in three languages," John murmurs and leans back on his chair. "Maybe they think that their clients are too stupid to know better." The insult is veiled, but it is there.

Bri gets it too. She bites her lip and stares into her cup. You get up. "You know what, I think I should go. Bri, are you coming?" You look at her and smile encouragingly. She looks at Phil, who is obviously uncomfortable, but you don't feel sorry for him. It is your girlfriend, grow a pair and stand up to your uncle. "Yes," she decisively picks up her purse. "Bri," Phil mutters but he doesn't get up. Pillock!

You two step outside and then John's voice is behind. "Hey wait!" That's just great. Apparently hinting and getting a hint are not affiliated skills for him. You spin and give him a stare. Bri sees a cab, and you wave to her. She has a nice smile, when she doesn't care what she looks like. Habitual body monitoring, you brain supplies a term.

"What's that all about?" What? What wasn't clear in your getting up and leaving? "It's about you two being chauvinistic arses." He smirks disdainfully. "Well, common, let's not pretend she was not a bint." You just can't believe it!.. "You don't know her!" "I know the type." Arsehole, arrogant arsehole. "She is your nephew's girlfriend!" "This week, yes." Why are you even talking to him?

You turn away from him and look for a cab. "Listen, it was a bit out of line, but I'm sure she gets it all the time. Common, can we go back inside and finish the coffee?" Bloody hell, he is still trying! "Why do you bother? Following your judgemental logic, I'm probably a lesbian anyways, with the nose ring and the hair," you snap. "Not with the way you are looking at me."

You clench your teeth and fists, honestly surprised you still haven't punched him. "Why don't you go back to your macho of a nephew and leave me alone?" If he touches you, you will definitely kick him in the bollocks. You guess you are that angry because you liked him so much at the beginning. Let's be honest, you got a thing for dominating men.

His back disappears in the coffee shop, and you get in a cab. You are shaking and regret having that venti. When you get home, you realize you left the wallet in the coffee shop. Your neighbour pays for your trip back there, no luck, and back home. You fall in your bed. It is noon, but you just couldn't bother.

The phone rings in an hour and you recognize the voice immediately. "I have your wallet, do you want me to drop it off?" At least, not "when do you want me to drop it off"!.. You give the address of a sandwich shop in the next block. "I'll be in twenty." You borrow more money from the neighbour, and here you are, drinking your tea. He pushes the door with his broad shoulder, and hot damn!.. If you could be a guy for once and shag a body, no matter the brain, but alas, that usually doesn't work for you this way…

He places the wallet in front of you and asks, "Can I sit?" "No," he sits anyways. You regret not wearing your "no means no" tee, but then again he would stare at your tits. "I just want to apologize." "Apologize to Bri." "I already did, Phil called her." Hm, maybe not so spineless... "She dumped him anyways." He picks up a crisp off your plate, and shoves it into his mouth. He is crunching with gusto, and that neck… Shite!

"You apologised, I forgive you. You are a chauvinistic arse, but you know when to back off. Bye!" "Are we friends again?" "We never were friends." "We could be," he leans closer and smiles. "Are you always so direct?" "I'm never that direct, but something tells me honesty is the best policy with you. Probably the nose ring and the hair." He is laughing at you!.. Why are you still sitting in front of him?

Because you want to shag him. Plain and simple. Six ways to Sunday, until your voice is raspy from screaming. And you are certain he is so good!

You get up and pay for your tea. He is sitting and staring at you. "Are you clean?" He hikes up his brows. "What?" "Are you clean?" He smirks, "Just like that?" "Just like that. You did say honesty is the best policy with me. You want a shag, I'm inviting you over." He rises on his feet and you are not sure what is playing on his face. Randy, yes, angry, that too… But what else? Disappointment? Too easy? Someone likes the hunt.

"I'm clean," he submits, and you head to the exit. He silently follows you outside, and you are opening your front door. You are still getting the condoms, hopefully haven't expired. It's been awhile… You come in and flip the switch. His hands are suddenly on your waist and he pins you to the wall. His lips are greedy, and he smells of coffee and the crisp he stole. You scrape his neck with your nails and push your tongue into his mouth. He bends his knee, presses it up between your legs and lifts you off the floor. Then he gently but firmly takes your chin in a hot palm and turns your head to get to your throat. You push the cardigan off his shoulders and jerk the collar of the shirt.

Clothes are off in a few seconds, and you tumble into your bed. Your first climax comes quickly from his busy lips and fingers, then he flips you on your stomach, and you claw on the sheets. He is pounding into you, clutching your hip. Bruises, you prat!... His large palm grabs a handful of your longer hair on the top of your head, and you lift your arse, bending your back further. The next round he slips under you while you are kneeling on the bed, and you lower yourself on his mouth. A beard does add a lot!.. You come with a scream, and he carefully lies you down on the bed. After a few minutes, you scratch his chest with your nails, and he is ready again… God, it's like a jack-in-the-box, couple circular movements of your hand, and it springs to life! His hands are under your buttocks and he lifts your pelvis… Good thing you have no back problems… And for the final round, you straddle him and come twice more. Well I never…

You fall into the sheets and you are not sure you haven't lost consciousness there, for a second… Time to back up your words with your actions. You roll on your stomach and look at him. His eyes are closed. He really is a very handsome specimen… "Well, that was nice..." Your voice is as raspy as you wanted. "Kicking me out already?" He smirks and, damn it, don't swoon. The crow's feet, he is older than you thought, closer to fifty… Well, the stamina though… "I have some work to do." "What kind of work?" "No, we are not doing that," the fluffy black eyelashes fly up, "we shagged, it was brill, now back to our separate ways. You machoing around, me back to..." That's a very vague waving. Good, nothing to talk to him about. "What if I don't want to macho around anymore? Maybe I have seen the light?" He is plain mocking you. "Congratulation on your satori, now get out of my bed. And flat for that matter." He sits up in a fluid motion, and you jump away from him and on the floor. The shirt, the pants, the denim… He is not even trying to catch them. Here you go, a sock is hanging on his head, and he is laughing! An unbounded guffaw! "You didn't think I'll just leave like that?" That's exactly what you thought. "What do you expect, a cuppa?" "Can I?" "NO."

"Listen," you feel like a git, are you actually going to articulate it? "We had a one night stand..." "It's day time." Seriously? "We shagged, we are done, I don't even know your surname." "Thorington." Posh! What's wrong with you? "Whatever," oh stop making yourself comfortable. He bunches up your favourite pillow and snuggles into it. "Are you comfortable there? The floor is probably cold," that's plain purring, and yes it is, you twat. Get out of my bed! He pats the sheet near him. Is he bonkers? "Common, come back to bed. Tell me about the empowerment, male gaze, and Octavia Butler." You start boiling up but then pause. "What?" His eyes are laughing, and he looks delicious. Did he just say Octavia Butler?! Sod it all!


	14. Blind Date and Carnival

**A/N: Since I was preoccupied with other stories and my actual work (which I spend shamefully little time on:) I was thinking about the prompts I got from you over doing something really random like cleaning my stove. And somehow**** Just4Me****'s "blind date" and ****RedHairedJenna****'s "carnival" merged together into this silly story :) Since one was supposed to be fluff and another smut, there will be two parts, one for each. **

**A/N#2: I thought we need some sort of a light and happy modern fairy tale to cheer us all up. And unlike Thorin, John Thorington can be such a Prince Charming. Ha! Also, ****RagdollPrincess**** planted this idea of tied up Thorin(gton) in my head, so this happened :) Enjoy!**

**A/N#3: I used the caller identification system the way it works here. If your country has a different one, just go with it :)**

Over years you became very apt in ignoring Thea's escapades but this one seems to be beating all possible records of intrusiveness and craftiness. Oh, "intrusion", good word, you haven't used it for awhile. "Intrusion", "intrude"... "He intruded into her private space, his eyes dark and..." And what? What were his eyes like?

"Wren, are you even listening to me?" "Yes, yes, I am here." You are wiping your keyboard with a sanitizing wipe, phone pressed to your ear with your shoulder. "So are you up for it? The date?" "Thea, it's ridiculous, of course I am not up for a blind date with a spotty teenage son of a strange lady neither you or I know very well." "First of all he is forty and an architect. Second of all, Mrs. Thorington is anything but strange. She goes into the same spa as I do." Oh, pardon me! How could you doubt the Mirkwood Spa and Salon stamp of approval?

"Thea, it is a completely mad idea." "We discussed it with Beatrice and she said that you sound perfect for John." Oh, she is Beatrice now? "No one can sound perfect, Thea. People are not cereal brands that can be classified by the amount of fiber in them. It only happens in stupid cheap love novels." You should know, you produce five a year.

"Wren, I'm calling my favour now." "Thea, no!" "Wren, you owe me one. Big time. You left me in the same house as your mother for the whole Christmas weekend and you weren't there." It is true. Your mother is a monster. But that is not even the problem. Thea is technically your stepmother. And you were in uni together.

"Thea..." You are whining. "Now, Wren, I have chosen my sacrifice. I'm coming to your place tomorrow, I'm bringing you a dress and shoes, and then you are going to dinner with Mr. John Thorington Esquire." "I'm busy tomorrow." "Doing what? None of your dashing, smirky and well-endowed men are going to run away from you, and you know why, Wren?" "Because they are not real?" You accept your defeat. "Because they are not real, Wren. Now get your head out of your… laptop and get out into the world." That was what you were trying to avoid for the past seven years.

**XXX**

You are standing in front of the restaurant forty minutes too early. You were so nervous that you rushed out of your flat without checking the clock. You see a bar in the next block and go there. You don't drink but you can at least sit. Thea's shoes are killing you. How can shoes be too big and cut through your skin at the same time?

You climb on a tall bar stool and curse your height. Or lack of it. Your feet are dangling but at least there is some relief in your burning soles. "A coke, please." The bartender nods. The bar is rather packed, people chat and a very fit blonde near you in leaning into a bloke standing near her.

The cogs swirl in your head. "She leaned into him and he felt the intoxicating spicy fragrance of her perfume. She wrapped her delicate fingers around the stem of his wine glass, her red indecent lips…" The bartender places two drinks in front of you. The second is an appletini. "From the gentleman at the end of the bar." You lift your eyes and freeze.

You are going through two mental processes at the same time. One is a peculiar mixture awe and appreciation. That is the most attractive man you have ever seen in your life! The second is hasty cataloging of all details. You can write five books about the dark luscious hair, strong willful profile, sensual lips and virile broad body. Let us face it, you probably will.

He gets up and comes closer. "Did I guess the drink?" The voice is velvet, molasses and other cliches in an hypnotic panties-dropping cocktail. Unfortunately, you can't write the allure of it into a book. You have to leave it to your reader's imagination. Let them imagine themselves how it vibrates through your body and makes you wet and trembling. No, that's too much. Instantly attracted to its owner? Too straightforward. Willing and…?

You realize you are quiet, your eyes are probably glossy. You really need to stop taking notes. "I don't drink." You point at coke with your eyes. He looks and then his gorgeous face is adorned with the most adorable embarrassed expression you have ever seen.

"Shoot, and I thought I was clever," he chuckles, "I guess I'm out of practice. Haven't done it in years." And yet you still got it, mister. Although the reformed womanizer finally looking for the real thing is such an overused trope. Probably because it works on most. "Do you mind if I sit?"

You discreetly check the clock on the wall. You have twenty six minutes left. "Sure," you smile, "but I have to leave in twenty minutes. I have an appointment." Vague is good. He is just so… everything… that you want to keep him for at least twenty minutes. He looks at the clock too. "Well, then I have twenty minutes to talk you into giving me your phone number."

**XXX**

He succeeds in thirteen. He is smart, funny and so sexy that you feel the need to squeeze your knees. You hardly notice that you are following the usual steps you have described so many times in your books. Blush, nod, laugh at his witty jokes, let him move a bit closer, smile when he smiles, fiddle with your glass.

He is good. In those thirteen minutes he makes it obvious that it is not something he normally does, that he had a nasty breakup or some tragic story couple years ago, the idea is important, specifics are usually vague, and he just couldn't let you leave without convincing you to give him a chance.

That is exactly why you never go out. Men like you. Apparently the red hair somehow tells them that you are up for it. Which you haven't been for the last eight years. Not since you met Allan and especially not since you lost him. You would think it would be written all over your face but most men can't read.

You surprise yourself and take a napkin. You write your number on it. He takes it in his long, elegant fingers and lifts a smooth black brow. The gesture counterintuitively still makes you squirm on your chair. Banalities shouldn't work, but there you are, imagining wiping this smug expression off his face with a bruising kiss. Ouch, that is really not something a sane real life woman would enjoy. Dealing with a bloody lip later would probably kill any drive in anybody.

"Is it fake?" "No," you take a sip from your coke. "Because I'm going through all the usual moves here and keep thinking that you are definitely not that kind of girl. And that you probably internally dying of laughter at my lame attempts to charm you." His bright blue eyes are laughing.

You smile back. "To my own astonishment, it is real. Try it." He fishes his phone out of the jacket pocket and dials. Your mobile is chirping in your clutch. You pick it up and stare at the screen. "John Thorington." You lift your eyes at him.

His eyes are wide open and he is staring at his screen. "Wren Leary," he slowly reads and then the cerulean irises are flooded by the dilated pupils. Ouch, too anatomical. He looks at you and start laughing. "Do you always give your number to random tossers in a bar a few minutes before your date?" "Do you always chat up random birds in bars before your dates?"

You look at each other and start laughing. "You were supposed to be boring and bookish, and I only agreed since my mother blackmailed me," he lifts his hands defensively. "You weren't supposed to look like a modern version of Maureen O'Hara!" "So that is your excuse? You were not even going to get to know that boring and bookish spinster better? Maybe she had a wonderful personality!" "I was still going to the restaurant! It's not like I was going to stand you up."

You are sitting on the bar stool, caged between the counter and his heavy body. When did he get so close? Your eyes are at same level and you dive in, pressing your lips to his. And then for the first time in eight years your writer's mind stops working. You have no words for comparison, you have no smart phrases regarding the texture of his lips and what kind of fireworks explode in your brain. You feel, you move and you sigh into his mouth. He grabs you and pulls you closer. Some half alive thought stirs in your mind about him being skillful and creative but then it dies with a hiss.

After a few delicious minutes, finally some cliches wake up in your dazed brain, you let go of his collar and move back. He is blinking like an owl. Maybe it has really been a while for him. One can't fake this look. "Now we are definitely not going to a posh stuffy restaurant," he is shaking his head. "Oh?" "We are going to that American travelling funfair at the North of the city. A girl who kisses like that needs candy floss and a teddy bear won for her at a shooting booth." You look at his puzzled. "You are so much fun," he smiles and pulls you into another kiss. You are going to take it as a compliment.


	15. Blind Date and Carnival Go On

**A/N: First of all, I realized that recently, especially since I got sick and started procrastinating persistently, reading and reviewing my stories has become a pretty much full-time work for some of you. And I just want to say how GRATEFUL and ELATED I am from all your feedback! I love you all so much! (And no, I am not medicated, I'm generally so emotional towards my readers:)**

**A/N#2: Thank you for wishing me quick recovery. I'm almost fine already, so no more binge writing. I'm going back to my thesis tomorrow :(**

**A/N#3: Slightly unrelated point, some of you were talking about submissive Thorin in "Thorin's Word a Day" and I just thought I'll remind you about "The Hunt" (oh, my first ever written smut! Oh, the memories! I was so embarrassed and thought everybody on the plane could guess what I was doing:) It says there that Thorin knows that if he pulls on their usual (!) restraints hard enough, they will snap :) How do you think he knows about that? :)**

**A/N#4: And lastly (am I not a chatty one?:) this story is running away from me as USUAL! I know I promised smut but it's not quite what you expect, I think :) And I'm even scared to think about it, but a sequel consisting of smutty one-shots maybe? :) *blushes and hides under the quilt***

You drive you both to the funfair after changing into flats that you keep at the back of the car. If anything, this blind date is pleasurable experience just for that feeling when you take off these Spanish boots. Without the cursed heels you do not reach his shoulder. You try to ignore the iconic feeling of being delicate and fragile near him, but nothing helps.

You chat in the car, he is indeed an architect, you even know the research center on uni campus he designed. He has this low velvet voice that you always need to describe to explain why the heroine with a heaving chest is so affected by the hero's presence. Works in reality as well. Your car seems tiny and the spicy grassy cologne is driving you crazy.

This is the first man who has a corporeal body and manages to catch your attention in seven years. And the first man whom you kissed after your husband died. And the first you ever kissed the first day you knew him. To say nothing about doing it in the first half an hour after meeting him.

He indeed had a horrible divorce two and a half years ago, his wife having cheated on him with his partner in the firm. So he doesn't have either now. He laughs and says he likes to be a free range architect. You like his puns, and very very much like his hand stroking your fingers on the stick. He has very warm hands, and you are always cold.

Candy floss is indeed as good as you remember from childhood, and he actually wins you a plush toy in a shooting booth. It is a pink elephant and you can't stop laughing. He looks very smug until you tell him that you saw him greasing the palm of the carny. You sit in a ferris wheel carriage and somehow you very easily tell him about Allan. He nods and holds your hand, and then pulls you into him. For the first time you don't feel like a traitor getting so close to another man.

The knifethrower asks for a volunteer from the crowd and you giggle. You are pressed into John's side and then the blonde busty assistant come up to you two and shove the mike into John's face. "You, sir, would you like to impress your beautiful date with bravery and audacity?" You wince from the choice of words. Seriously, even you write better.

"Gladly, if you promise it will work on my date," he is laughing and you look at him in shock. "Are you mental?" You pull him down by his tie and are whispering hotly into his ear. "Can you imagine how unsanitary those blades are? What if he nicks you?" He is laughing more. "He promised that will impress my date, how can I say no?" He kisses your cheek and steps forward.

You clench your fists and chew your lips. The problem is not that you are worried about him. A bit, of course, but then again you are pretty sure they take this act around the world and know what they are doing. What worries you is the memories of how you were doing your research for _The Knife and the Heart_, your second most popular novel. How are your publishers even still in business with such taste?

It was two years into your widowhood and the first time you even remembered you have a body. Because all the Youtube videos and tutorial for impalement arts drove you into unexpected sexual frenzy. It was literally your porn. The artist on the screen takes out a blade, you unbutton your jeans, he moves his hand back before the throw, you take out a vibrator and so on, and so on.

You are grown-up woman and a mediocre writer, but even you know the sadomasochistic eroticism of the noble art of knife throwing and its place in classical literature. You also have a copy of _A Girl on the Bridge_. What you always considered slightly alarming in your kink is the fact that you are attracted to the human target, not the artist.

The assistant leads John to a wide board and two cuffs appear on the top of it. You breath in and bite your lip painfully. Your self control is slipping and you are shaking. The girl has to stand on a ladder to reach his lifted wrists and the shackles click. You are probably drawing blood from your tortured lip. You try to stop yourself from narrating in your head, but when have you ever managed it?

"She ran her hands over his spread body, his helplessness and immobility the best aphrodisiac for her. Her fingers lingered on the buckle of his trousers, and he exhaled loudly. "Do not speak," she murmured and he clenched his jaw. Her palm slid lower and cupped..."

You turn away from the act and close your eyes. You can do it, you can. You just have to breath through it and think about your mother. It can thwart any sort of excitement for you any day of the year. You slowly turn around and then the knife thrower in a ridiculous glittery costume steps out.

He takes out the first long blade and you look at John. He is smiling, completely relaxed and obviously enjoying himself. He doesn't seem like an adrenaline junkie to you. To think of it, since you met about four hours ago nothing seemed to really unsettle him. Maybe he is like that in general, nonchalant and cheerful. Meaning, the opposite of you. Well, the opposites attract.

With a swoosh the first blade flies, the crowd gasps and it drives into the board above John's right shoulder with a thump. Your inner walls clench, and you fist your hands. John gives out a chuckle. "How are you feeling, my man?" The knife thrower's mannerisms would be hilarious, weren't you so preoccupied with your increasingly stickier knickers. "Endlessly grateful that you are aiming above my waist." The crowd roars with laughter.

Your eyes fall below the said waist and then you push your face into the elephant. You hear the thump of the second knife and moan. You brace yourself for the next wave of text pouring into your feverish brain. "She lowered herself in front of him, holding his gaze and licked her lips. He groaned when her deft fingers unbuckled his belt and reached for the zipper. His raging erection was painful..." Thump! You jump up and practically bite into the plush toy.

You peek. There are two knives sticking above John's shoulders and one near his hip. Its companion follows on the other side. Thump! Oh... "If I were you, my friend, I would put your legs wider," the knife thrower pulls another blade out of his assistant's hand.

"Spread and open for her pleasure, he was breathing heavily, his wide masculine chest rising. She stepped back and pulled a narrow curved blade out of a scabbard on her thigh. With an experienced twirl of her slender wrist she sent the blade in the space between his inner thighs..." Thump! You yelp and bite into the poor dumbo.

The crowd is cheering and you dare to peek. The knife is three inches below John's… You give up and embrace it. You are thinking about his cock and there isn't much you can do about it. The assistant lets him out of the restraints and he bows to the clapping crowd. He is smiling and steps closer to you. "Have I impressed my date?" You jump at him and hang on him. He barks a laugh, picks you up under your bum and you hug his waist with your legs. The crowd roars in approval. You kiss him, and it is fervent and scorching, and all the other words you have ever used to describe it in your books. He moans into your mouth and you bite his bottom lip. "Take me home," you whisper into his ear and he nods.


	16. Lift

**For UKReader**

**A/N: I was really struggling with this one. Since I'm juggling so many stories at the same time, I just couldn't come up with anything original for "stuck in an elevator with claustrophobic Wren" prompt. I went through a huge amount of scenarios in my head and none would just do it for me. I gave up. And decided since I have nothing fresh and exiting to come up with, then I'll just make it silly and fluffy. Don't judge me *really feeling insecure here***

She is fit. The small body, petite and perky, slightly lacking in curves to your taste, but the long sensual neck, a slightly haughty set of her head, and of course the flaming locks compensate. Every morning you stare at the crown of copper locks, sometimes in braids, sometimes in a complicated ponytail, very rarely running down her shoulders in soft waves. The shoulders and the collarbones cause most thrill in you. You have a fetish and you are fine with it. Her shoulders are exquisite. Slender, flexible, and all her posture is a promise.

Last thing you need is actually to talk to her. Because then your creepy voyeurism will definitely lose its charm. You are certain once she opens her mouth, the spell will be broken. After all she does work in a fashion magazine. And no, you didn't stalk her, the folder in her hands every morning clearly states _Dale Confidential_ and you've seen the glossy colourful covers at the tills in grocery shops. There is always a photoshopped female celebrity on the cover and article titles like "26 new ways to seduce your boss". You really want to ask why anyone would listen to new promising solutions to the problem if the previously offered advice clearly didn't work and how many women are there who are in dire need to seduce their boss anyways?

Today she is wearing one of those narrow skirts that hug her glorious tiny bum and go below her knee, frilly semitransparent blouse with merry polkadots and her hair is in a complicated do, with a braid going around her head. She rushes into the lift in her usual hasty steps, heels clanking, sweet fresh perfume fills your nose, and she is immediately absorbed in something on her mobile.

You are sipping your coffee. You have twenty five floors to enjoy the view of the lines of her elegant neck and the tiny curls that escaped the braids, coiling at the hairline at the back of her head. Most people leave at the sixteenth, and you know that the last guy will rush out at the eighteenth. And then for six floors it's just you and her.

You pass the nineteenth floor, when the lift jolts and stops. That is the second time this week. Last time it happened when people were actually leaving their work. They were livid. They had to spend an hour in it, until the service people finally managed to get it going again. You reach for the phone on the wall and dial. "Yeah, hi, I'm in the lift in the E wing of the building, and I think we are stuck." You are listening to apologetic mumbling of the reception desk, and meanwhile you realize that the girl is not moving. You hum in agreement, and after receiving a promise that they will solve the issue ASAP you hang up.

"Miss?" She is still, only the delicate shoulders are rising a bit. You look at her face. She is very pale, and her eyes are closed. She is taking small spasmodic breaths and the knuckles on her tiny hands are white. She is clutching her folder and the mobile. "Miss, are you alright?"

"No," she breathes out and you realizes she is trying to take deeper breaths. "Are you claustrophobic?" Damn, is asking a claustrophobic person if they are indeed terrified of being stranded in closed space, such as the lift you are currently in, going to trigger even more anxiety for them? You put your coffee cup in the corner on the floor.

She nods and presses her belongings tighter to her chest. She is biting on her bottom lip. Her translucent, usually radiant skin has a greenish tint. Right, what are you supposed to do to manage a panic attack? Breath deeper and try to get distracted.

"Miss, what is your name?" "Wren," she gulps, "Wren Leary." "I'm John Thorington. Nice to meet you." You move a bit closer. Will standing near her make her more uncomfortable? She probably needs as much space as possible. "So, Wren, you just take deep breaths and we can just have a friendly chat. They will start the lift pretty soon." She is shaking her head.

"You don't want to chat?" More furious shaking. "You don't want to breath? I agree with you, it is quite boring." Two giant hazel eyes fly open, and she looks at you confused. So she does hear some things. "Where do you work, Wren?" The wide open eyes scan your face. They are colour of the single malt Glenfiddich, the lashes are thick and long, meticulous black liner on the upper lid. You should know, you photograph eye make up twice a month. This is called V-shaped eyeliner style. Because she is so much shorter, she looks exceptionally doe-eyed at the moment, staring at you from down there.

"You know exactly where I work. We have ridden this lift every morning for the past seven months," her tone is unexpectedly grouchy. "And you tend to stare a lot, so you probably know more about me that I do myself." Ouch. That was direct. "Can't help it, doll, you are an eyecandy!"

She inhales and her eyes flash. "Listen up, you perv," she takes a step ahead and points a tiny finger at your face, blush returning to her cheeks, "if you even think of pulling anything off..."

You smile and then plainly chuckle. "Feeling better?" She freezes and realizes then she moved and even spoke. "I apologize for staring though," you lift your hands in mock surrender. "I am a photographer in _Erebor Incorporated_ on the twenty seventh, can't help it."

She steps back and shifts her weight between her feet. "Thank you," she suddenly smiles, and it is a magnificent smile. Open, sincere, making her look so much more… Just more. She peers around, and you see her tense again. "So Wren, what do you do in _Dale Confidential_?" "I write sex advice column." Wow, that was... wow. Really?

"Really?" She looks at you again, peevish expression back on her face. "Which part surprises you, that I do it or that I openly confess it?" "Neither, I have no judgment regarding it. Never read it. Just didn't think that this is what you do." "What did you think I do then?" To be honest, you didn't really care.

"An editor?" She lifts a brow and gives you a skeptical look. "Now you are just trying to weasel your way out of an uncomfortable conversation. I bet you didn't even think about it. You probably just appreciated the bum, or the breasts, or the curve of the shoulder. While others just ogle, you the artistic type tend to dissect and appreciate the parts." Yikes.

She looks better. The cheeks are gaining their colour back. At the expense of your dignity, but you guess it's alright. "I suppose you should know male preferences better than anybody." "My job is not about male preferences, it is about making intimacy more pleasurable for a woman. Be it with a man, with a woman or with a dildon." You don't even want to know.

"What is a dildon?" You try not to smile but the corners of your lips twitch. She puffs the air out. "Listen, John, I appreciate you trying to distract me but I'm not going to have a sex talk with you right now." She closes her eyes again and takes long conscientious breaths. "We can talk about something else. Puppies? Lollies? The new nuclear policy of Turkmenistan?"

She opens her eyes again. "Turkmenistan doesn't have nuclear weapons." Her tone is strict and didactic. She looks additionally hot, with the whole librarian slash teacher sternness around her. You chuckle. "I have no idea really, just sounded impressive." Suddenly her face is mischievous. "I have no idea either," she snickers, "You are just too easy, honestly." What?

The lift jolts again and she squeals. A second ago she was taking a piss out of you, and now she is pressed into you, surprisingly strong little hands grabbing your sweater. The folder and the mobile flop on the floor. You circle her with your arms and press her into yourself. She is shaking, and her eyes seem twice as big as a second ago.

Everything is quiet for a few seconds, and she slowly exhales. You feel her heart beating frantically, there is basically no space between your bodies. "Can I please stay here for a second?" Her voice is very high. "Sure thing." She wraps her arms around your middle and presses her face into your sternum. She is regulating her breath, you think you might have to as well.

She seems to be mumbling. "Sorry?" "Nothing, just trying to distract myself." "Mother Goose rhymes reciting?" She chuckles. It's shaky but it is definitely a chuckle. "Song lyrics." "Oh, what band?" Please, don't say Justin Bieber. "The Stones." What?

She presses her cheek into you harder. "There's a little yellow pill. She goes running for the shelter of her mother's little helper. And it helps her on her way, gets her through her busy day..." Her plump sexy lips covered with bright deep pink lipstick are moving, and you think you are in love.

She chuckles again. "Somehow imagining Mick makes me calmer." "Goodness, can't think how that actually works." She giggles. "Well, men think about footie to be distracted." Naughty, naughty girl!

She is not clinging desperately to you anymore but doesn't seem to move away either. "Tell me about your work, John." "I am a photographer for ads agency, what's there to tell? Lots of half naked women on bikes, and cars, recently a lot of coffee cups too." She hums. "What is wrong with people these days, what happened to a good old cuppa?" She nuzzles you. Bugger, that's distracting. "It'll pass, I'm sure," she sounds pensive, "Some day good old cuppa will be in fashion again. Especially after that Jag commercial."

"Are you a fan, Miss Leary?" "Of Jags?" The mischievous tone tells you she knows exactly what you are asking about. "Obviously. Why would you be a fan of the git in a checked suit?" "I am the fan of the said git. He is hot as hell and talented to no end. Do you think I'm interested in a supercharged 3.0 liter V-6 with 380 horsepower and 339 foot pound of torque?"

You push her away and look into her eyes. They are laughing. "I think I'm in love with you." She smirks. "Well, that's unfortunate. Because I find you endlessly repulsive." She grabs a handful of your sweater and pulls you down and towards her. Her lipstick tastes like black cherries. Neither of you notices that the lift starts moving.


	17. Dream

**A/N: Just a thought that wouldn't leave me alone after ****Just4Me****'s comment for a chapter on "Thorin's Word A Day" #25: "****I'm glad that was just a dream, and not some hideous alternate reality where they never really met". I realized the beginning of the story might read like that only when I was correcting typos in it, and I'm glad that you caught on that. So, here is a story!**

You wake up with a jerk, your heart is beating painfully in your throat, you are taking huge gulps of air. You press your hand to your forehead and reach for the other side of the bed to touch the warm shoulder of your husband. "Thorin…" Your hand hits an empty pillow, and then it all comes back to you.

There can not be anyone in your bed. You are not married, and most of all there cannot be a sleeping Dwarf in your bed. Because Dwarves do not exist. You look at the annoying green digits on your radio. 3:15. You fall back into your pillows and groan.

You pull at your hair. What kind of a convoluted absurd dream was that? All those little tangible details, he was pressing you into his body, his mouth on the pulse on your neck, black thick beard tickling your skin, you were sitting on his lap, your arms wrapped around his neck. A heavy velvet dress on you, a dark blue attire on him, the children playing on the floor, the youngest in his older brother's arms, all of it so real...

You have had these dreams since you remember yourself. It seems with years they have been intensifying and in the past ten months, since you started working on that medieval exposition, they have been driving you mad.

More and more details add to your delusion. The way his hair falls and curtains you from the world when he presses your body into the sheets, the way it feels when his son stirs under your heart for the first time, the weight of his newborn babe in your hands, the feeling of power and pride you will feel when the heavy iron crown lies on your head, the smiles, the tears, the kisses, Thror, Unna, Dain and Othin...

You grab a pillow and smack it into your face. No more Northern mythology before bedtime. You nuzzle the pillow and will sleep to come. You have an important day tomorrow, there are flyers to order, a banquet hall to book, laundry to pick up…

You are late, and you tumble down the stairs only to see the bus leaving the bus stop. You curse under your breath and rush around the corner. You can still catch the other one, and with a lucky transfer you can still make it. You slip on the ice, and your handbag falls on the ground. You curse again and start picking up scattered items, thankful that at least there were not tampons in it.

You feel the presence of another person near by and lift your eyes. The gentlemen is probably around seventy, elegant silver grey hair, mischievous blue eyes. He is smiling to you, scooting and picking up your pens and tubes of lipstick. You gratefully accept them and then see the other bus going by. You definitely have had better days.

"It will get better," he has a low melodic voice, and you remember that he is still there. "Oh, sorry, I haven't thanked you." "It's quite alright, my dear, I only did what any self-respecting gentleman would do." You both get up, and you realize that he is very tall. An elegant grey suit, a grey coat and a silver scarf. Although slightly too monochrome for your taste, you have to admit he is quite dashing.

You sigh. "It's just that I'm now definitely late for my work..." "Believe an old man, my dear, the destiny is never late, nor is it early, it arrives precisely when it means to". You smile to him again and shove the last items in your handbag.

"Well, I really should be going... Have a nice day!" You turn around to leave, and then you hear his chocolate voice behind you, "And a very good day to you, lady Wren." You think that you must be hearing things, you shrug and take your first step towards the next bus stop.

You feel a gentle push at your back, and you have a moment to get appalled. Did this nice old gentlemen just pushed you from the curb, onto the road, into a giant puddle, dirty cold water mixed with ice? And then a large black car turns from around a corner, and you realize that the disgusting icy goo seeping into your ankle boot is the least of your problems at the moment.

You close your eyes and hear the brakes screeching. You brace yourself for an impact, but it never comes. You peek. The bumper is literally one inch away from your heaving chest, and you gulp.

The door flies open, and two large palms grab your shoulders. "Are you alright?! Miss, are you alright?!" You lift your eyes, and there he is. The endlessly familiar blue eyes, thick black lashes, the beard is here too, the hair is shorter, but still the same luscious dark waves with strands of argent, pulled into a ponytail, the curved sexy lips, and you feel nauseated. You always feel like vomiting when you are emotional.

He lets you go and steps back. "It's you..." You both say it at the same time and stare at each other. He shakes his head, and the gesture is familiar too. "Wren..." "Thorin..." "It's John actually," his voice is raspy, "Thorington." You emit a ridiculous giggle. He smiles widely. "Wren..." His velvet voice caresses your name, and you swoon.

The kiss is familiar too and the frigid water slushing in your boot is just another in a series of the disgusting substances somehow involved in a passionate moment between the two of you that you had to endure over years. There was swamp water, warg blood, Orc blood, Great Spider's web… You push your hands into his hair and get on your tiptoes. A delicious, so endlessly familiar chuckle rumbles in his chest. "What?" "You are so much shorter this time." "Oh you barmy muppet," your voice is warm and teasing, "it's you who is taller this time!"


	18. Woman

**A/N: I decided to try a song-based fic. Never done it before. Seems like real fun, when others do it :D**

"**I'm A Woman" by Koko Taylor **

The curtain opens, and in the cone of light you see the sexiest little thing. Small perky body in a shimmering blue dress. Cut up to the middle of her thigh, shaped leg, lacy top of a stalking. The 30's look somehow becomes her, though it shouldn't. She has a weird elvish face, with the orange curls she looks almost like a fairy from those books your nieces read. The pianist strikes the keys, and the hip moves in the rhythm.

The voice is surprisingly low, raspy, and you momentarily think that this one is a screamer. The choice of the song does not disappoint.

_When I was a little girl, only twelve years old,_

_I couldn't do nothing to save my dog gone soul._

_My mama told me the day I was grown,_

_She says, "Sing the blues child, sing it from now on..."_

She drops her head back, and the long neck is elegant, tendons tense, throat's movements mesmerizing.

_I'm a woman, oh, yeah,_

_I'm a woman, I'm a ball of fire._

Oh yes, she is. The slanted, almost Asian looking eyes burn, and the small hand lies on the hip.

_I'm a woman, I can make love to a crocodile._

_I'm a woman, I can sing the blues._

_I'm a woman, I can change old to new._

Your mate is late, he squeezes between the chairs and flops on the chair near you. You see his eyes fall on the stage, and he gapes. She notices him too, and the nostrils flare. She is obviously mad he was interrupting. The next line is almost a growl.

_I'm a woman, I'm a rushing wind._

_I'm a woman, I can cut stone with a pin._

He swears under his breath and squirms on his chair. She narrows her eyes. He leans to you. "We need to leave." "Why?" No force will drag you out of this club. You are nailing this bird tonight. "That's my ex wife." You stare in him in shock.

_I'm a woman, I'm a love maker._

_I'm a woman, you know I'm an earth shaker!_

She adds more swing into her hip, and you just can't believe it. John is a bit of an unassuming bloke, you work together but you don't know much about him. He is quiet, rarely goes out with you, a generally pleasant type. Good designer, not much more to say. That is not how you imagined his ex wife to look!

_I'm goin' down yonder, behind the sun_

_Gonna do some for you, ain't never been done._

She closes her eyes and licks the lips covered in red lipstick. The bottom one is plump and pouty, the upper one curved and arrogant. "How did you get a wife like that?" "She picked me up in a club." He grabs your drink and drink your double Scotch in one gulp. You don't blame him. "Didn't know she is back in town."

_I'ma hold back the lightning, with the palm of my hand._

_Shake hands with the devil, make him crawl in the sand._

"What happened?" "Turned out she can't have kids. She dumped me, said I needed someone better."

_I'm a woman, oh, yeah._

_I'm a woman, I'm a ball of fire._

The red lips move, and the skin on the slender shoulders is radiant. Her eyes fall on him, and voice goes lower.

_I'm a woman, _

_I can make love to a crocodile._

He can't take his eyes off her, furious red spots on his cheekbones. "Send me divorce papers by mail." "When was it?" "Two years ago. Ran into her last January, said she was finally over me."

_I'm a woman, I'm a love maker._

_I'm a woman, you know I'm an earth shaker._

_Oh, oh, oh, oh, I'm a woman..._

She arches her back and long black lashes flutter. The green eyes are burning. She is so not over him.

You throw cash on the table. You have nothing to do here anymore. "Are you staying, John?" He doesn't answer. The music stops, the club explodes with applause, and she smiles. The smile is only for him, and you think that at their second wedding you are so nailing the maid of honour.


	19. Apartment or Flat

**A/N: For ****Neewa****! Thank you for the song prompt **_**"Bad Girls" by Donna Summer**_** and the idea with the apartments! Hope everybody likes it!**

OK, London officially sucks. It is dirty, noisy, people are rude, and it is freakishly expensive! Should you say _bloody _expensive? The apartment, _flat, _that you finally found is driving you crazy. The problem is that you are a night nurse, meaning you need to sleep during the day. And it is noisy. You toss and turn, and yet you can still hear the transport in the street and the voices of people outside. It turns out that a _chippy shop _produces a lot of noise. How is deep fried fish and French fries, and yes, that is exactly what they are, a reason for stepping on the pavement and yelling, "Oy, mate, that is barmy! Such a grub!"

You hide your head under the pillow and then hear a loud bang into your door. No way! Now what? You groan, and hear Thea stomping to the door. Have you forgotten to mention that you have a roommate? Yes, the glorious Thea Martin, your best friend and your nemesis. That was her idea to move to London. And you are such a wuss and were so heartbroken over Allan that you dragged your sorry ass across the ocean with her. Although her plan was well thought through, you two settled in rather smoothly, you still suspect that Benedict and Thomas William were her main reasons for moving. Neither of the two hotties does it for you, but you cannot deny the charm of the accent. The only thing is that most men you see everyday sound horrible. Apparently it's called East London accent. Meaning they are British equivalent of rednecks.

Thea is talking to someone, and the second voice is definitely male. Low and sexy. You momentarily question your sanity. You can hardly hear it, why did you assume it is sexy? You so need to get laid…

You give up and come out to the tiny kitchen. Thea is making her usual toast and scrambled eggs. "What was it?" She turns around and looks at you with pity. No wonder, you look like shit. That is the fifth night, well, technically day, that you are not getting enough sleep. "God, Wrennie, have some food at least." You flop on a chair. Thea is buttering you toast, and her face is dreamy. Oh-oh, not good. "That was our new neighbour, Wrennie. And I'll tell you I am finally starting to appreciate our building." You drop your head on your arms on the table. "Oh no, Thea… Do not sleep with our new neighbour, please..." You are moaning. "Last time you slept with apartment 56 and then apartment 59, and that was the same floor, and it got so awkward that we had to move."

"First of all, _flat _56 and _flat _59, and secondly, I _shagged _them, Wrennie, and finally, not my fault they do not understand one time thing concept." Chippy shop or not, at least the rent is not horrendous here. "Please, Thea..." "But Wrennie, you should have seen him! Tall, dark, handsome, large hands and feet, and the lips!" She is purring, and you tragically chew your toast. And the water was even hot here sometimes in the mornings... You will miss the building.

"And he is a musician, Wrennie! That bang, that was him accidentally bumping his cello into our door. He knocked to apologise! So polite!" Oh, no! "Cello?! Fuck, Thea, is he going to practise it here?!" Goodbye, the pathetic left-overs of sleep! "OK, Thea, I changed my mind, shag your dark, tall and handsome. And then we can swiftly move out. Or maybe he will move out." She laughs salaciously, and you groan.

The next day you come back home, take a shower and climb under the blanket. You closed all windows, but the street noises still seep in. Damn it! A floor above you, someone is stomping, and you bite into the pillow. By now you have tried everything: earplugs, earphones, earmuffs, nothing works. Since they changed your shifts and you started coming home at 8 instead of 5, you can't sleep.

That is when cello starts. At first you think it is a hallucination in your feverish brain, it is low and soft, and you realize it is Bach. You are no expert, but you saw _August Rush. _You had a thing for John Rhys Meyers for a bit there, but it passed. Not tall enough.

The music is amazing, it sort of crawls up on you, seemingly vibrates through the walls, gentle and erotic. What, erotic? You roll on your back and stare at the ceiling. You are not much for music, to be honest, dancing yes, music nah. Especially classics, but this is pure orgasm. There are forceful low dives, and then it flies up, and drops down again. Maybe it is because it is live, just behind the wall, maybe you are that sleep deprived, maybe it's Thea's "tall, dark and handsome". You close your eyes, and imagine long sensual fingers, deft and calloused. You really don't know, do they get calluses from those strings? Oh wait, they also have a bow…

You wake up from your alarm. You cannot believe it! You fell asleep! And you slept all your well-deserved nine hours! And all thanks to the cello! You are full of energy and very perky. You saunter into the kitchen and find Thea finishing her dinner. "I changed my mind again. If you as much as lay your finger on Tall, Dark and Cello Playing, I will murder your favourite striped top in a laundromat!" "It's called _launderette_, Wrennie, and why? Do you want him for yourself?" "I spent the whole day in bed, Thea!" "With him? So quickly?" "Don't be daft, I slept! His celloing made me sleep! It's like the world's best sleeping aid. Do not touch him! For once, keep your hands to yourself." Thea swears on her favourite black pumps, and you cheerfully skip to work.

The story repeats for the next ten days, and you are in Heaven. You are well-rested, highly functional and as cheerful as a lark. And then the music stops. For the whole day it is gone, and you are dying in your bed. You pray to all deities you can think of, but sleep doesn't come. The next night you are dozing on your station, and after your shift you go to a music store. You buy discs and try playing them. It doesn't work. The second day goes without his playing, and you are in agony. Weirdest theories float in your brain. Is it the vibrations through the wall that worked? You are staring at a picture of some fancy cello player on the disc case. The cello is between his legs, and there is this spike at the bottom that is jammed into the floor. Maybe the movement of the bow are transferred through it into the floor and into your walls… You groan and press a pillow to your face.

After the third no luck in the sleeping area day, you are desperate enough to buy a cello yourself and make Thea play it. How much is this thing anyways? You decide to give it the last chance, and then he is back! The warm, soft, orgasmic waves of Bach's Suite No. 1 pour into your ears. Yes, you now know what that is. The pile of useless discs got you educated.

You sleep like a baby. And for the next six days after that. And then he is gone again. You endure it like a trooper. Meaning you rage and kick furniture. And then you think that maybe it's not the vibrations, maybe it's something in how he is playing. You need to record him, and then you will be fine! It sounds crazy, but you are that desperate.

You have an old boombox, and one morning instead of going to bed you dress up and head to _flat _number 9. You put on a sexy top and jeans, a bit of mascara, and make a perky ponytail. Pretty much you are as dolled up as you can. You are not very good at that. You are passing Thea in the kitchen, and her eyebrows hike up. You make an innocent face and pretend nothing extraordinary is happening.

You exhale and knock at the door. The lock clicks, and you are hit by a full scale panic. What a fuck are you doing, Wren? The door opens, and he is in front of you. Mother of God! The eyes are blue, the shoulders and chest wide, a thick black beard and a ponytail! Tall, dark and handsome? That is a fucking understatement of the year! More like delectably large, orgasmically gifted with a luscious mane and fucking gorgeous! _Bloody sod_, he is fit! As it British meaning of this word, as in sexy as hell.

He lifts a brow. Right, you have been staring at him for the last few seconds. "Hi!" You stretch your hand. "I'm Wren, I live in 6." "Hi, Wren, I am John," you were right, the voice is sexy. He smiles, still holding your hand in his. It feels like you are being constantly slightly electrocuted. You so want to jump his bones. What in the name of Rassilon was that?

"Can I come in?" He lets you pass inside. You got so sidetracked by his sexiness that you forgot the point of your visit. Also, now you feel even more crazy to ask to record his practise. What kind of stalking behaviour would that be?

"So, John, I heard your playing..." You lick your lips. You had a nice speech prepared but your head is suddenly completely empty. He is barefoot, in a dark tee, and old denim. There is no belt, and the pants sit very low. _Trousers, _Wren. Although you can see the what is locally called _pants _as well. The waist is peeking. Fuck, you haven't had sex in thirteen months and a week. Not that you are counting.

He rubs the back of his neck with his large palm. "I am sorry, was it too loud? I specifically mentioned it to the landlord, and he said it is alright as long as it is during daytime." And here is the example of good British accent, ladies and gentlemen. Well articulated, all necessary sounds there. Although you are no expert, you can hear some sort of strange irregularity in it as well. You are just starting to figure the local accents out, but he sounds a bit like Doctor Number Nine. Would that be Northern accent then?

"No, no, you were not at all loud. Actually it is lovely! I really liked it!" The brows twitch. You decide to tear the bandaid off in one move. "You see, John, I work in a hospital, I am a night nurse, so when you start practising that is exactly the time when I'm going to sleep..."

"Oh..." His curved lips form this wonderful "o", and you gulp. "I am so sorry…" He sounds sincerely upset. "Oh no! That's not what I meant. Actually since you moved in, I finally started sleeping properly. When you were gone for a few days, I couldn't fall asleep at all. Where were you by the way?" You realize you sound like a jealous girlfriend and feel the blush. It is also known as "Wren's Bane", it's furious, uncontrollable and very, very noticeable. You are so pale in general that it is like watercolours on your cheeks.

He smirks. God, you are hardly controlling yourself! "I had a gig in Manchester." "And I couldn't sleep. Don't do it again!" He is staring at you in disbelief. You emit a pathetic laugh. "Kidding." He is scrutinizing your face. "So, John, to the point of my visit. I bought some discs but they don't work. That weird guy in the store sold me them, and he said they were the best. But I still don't sleep." "Are you American?" His voice has to be declared illegal. "Canadian. Calgary, Alberta." He hikes up his brows again. "It's a city. Calgary, in the province Alberta. A lot of oil, cowboy hats and beef." "Oh..." Again with the "o". You might get an "o" just from seeing his lips move. "So I was wondering if you have some recordings of your playing and if I can purchase them?" OK, in for an inch, as they say. "And if not, then maybe I can record your playing? I am hoping it'll work. When you are not here to put me to sleep I mean." You look at him from under your lashes. He tilts his head and is pondering your question.

Or possibly staring at your mouth. You lick your lips, and he exhales. So, the latter then. Oh fuck it all. And then you do something you never do. At all. Ever. You do not even know if people do it anywhere but in stupid romcoms. You leap at him and grab the handfuls of his tee on his chest. And then you pull him down. Damn, he is so tall. Considering that his lips land on yours he is more than willing. No way this feat is achievable anywhere but in movies if the other person doesn't meet you half way.

And he does. His hands are splayed on your back, and you moan into his mouth. So good, so fucking good! He picks you up under your buttocks, and you hang on him. He is delicious, he tastes of mint and tea, and your grab handfuls of his hair. "O" indeed! The smooth silkiness of his strands has to be illegal for sure!

You two topple into his bed, and you find out that yes, the fingers are calloused. And very, very talented. You come with a scream. And then again. And only then you can finally pull off those jeans from his hips. He is purring and rumbling, and all together he is wonderful. Your brain is off, and you do not care.

After round three and then four you two are spread on his bed. He is breathing heavily, and you are laughing. "I just wanted to record you play." He is staring at the ceiling. "Why don't you just stay and I will practice in the living room?" You screw your eyes at him, and he turns his head. He is smiling.

"That is very generous of you, John. But what am I going to do tomorrow? Seriously, I have this lovely old boombox, it might work…" "You can stay tomorrow as well." Is he serious? He rolls on his side and props his head on his hand. "Why? Is that such a mental idea? Thus, we both get what we want. You get to sleep, I get to see you in my bed. Sounds like a great plan to me." He is as they say here _mental_. You laugh in disbelief. "I hardly know you. I mean this was great, and we can discuss where we go from here. I mean, no pressure… But…" "But you are not moving in with me." His eyes are laughing, and you think he is obviously nuts.

You move in three days later, after three torturous sleepless days and a bouquet of daffodils left under your door. He is obviously twisting your arm into doing it, but the gesture is weirdly romantic. He does need to practice, and he is sacrificing it for you. As they say here, _tosser_. You sleep like a baby in his bed.

When he leaves for his next gig for three days, a disc of his playing recorded for you, you do not even need it. The smell of his skin on the sheets does the trick. He comes back, drops the suitcase on the floor and pulls you into him. He looks like shit. There are purple shadows under his eyes, he looks exhausted. "I could not sleep without you." You curl up into each other, and he nuzzles your neck. "Good day." "Good day, sleep tight." It doesn't rhyme, but you two think it's cute and romantic. And yes, you are that nauseatingly happy together!


	20. Pickup Truck

**A/N: For ****RagdollPrincess****! Thank you for the song prompt and the phrase to work around :) Especially thank you for reminding me of the fact that I am indeed bilingual :)**

"**Truck Got Stuck" by Corb Lund Band**

The lilting voice of the yoga lady is floating above our heads, and I'm thinking there are about seven minutes before all the hell breaks loose. My wife is biting on her bright red lower lip. In the past seven months I have learnt that when the green eyes are narrowed like that, it is when everyone should hide under tables and pray for their lives.

"And then you need to embrace your inner mother…" My other half snorts, and I think I hear her mumbling under her nose. I can distinguish a couple of words. One is _фигня_, which is "poppycock" in her mother tongue, and then there is _сдохнуть_, which is an equivalent of "kick the bucket". I know that one well enough. It's never a good sign.

Her mom, who is the best mother-in-law a bloke can hope for, has moved here in the seventies but she is still struggling with the language. My wife's English sounds surprisingly posh, after a few years of internship in Leeds, which is especially stunning considering the words that sometimes come out of this glorious mouth. As a professor of comparative linguistics I have to say that her aspiration of the first consonant in _cunt_ is alarmingly sexy.

My interest in Russian and the other Slavic languages is what got me in this aggro in the first place. I needed someone to read me the texts, she needed a ride home. The first time we shagged was in the back of my car, at the parking lot of my apartment building. We just couldn't wait another three minutes to get up the stairs.

My wife is a surgeon, which means she is a tough cookie and as ruthless as a Mongolian nomad. Apparently it is from them invading Russia in the 13th century where my wife and many other Russians got slanted eyes. Apparently the temper is from her BC Dad, but no way in hell a Canadian can be such a wild beast. Having grown up in Manchester, I have to say Canadians I've met are as fluffy as lab pups. All except for my fierce wife. And at the moment she looks increasingly irritated.

"Imagine you are a fish bowl, and your babe is swimming in the warm embrace of your love..." Wren is rolling up her eyes and then gives you a pointed look. "Давай пойдем, а? Это же явная чушь," she speaks in a low voice. She wants to leave, and I shake my head. She keeps on skipping these classes, and today I went with her to make sure she sits through at least one of them. She claims they are "бред" and then happily saunters to a nearest Tim's.

Even if the lady does sound like she is raving under a very high fever, there still might be something useful in her blabbering. Yes, none of us expected this New Age gibberish in a prenatal class in the best hospital in the city, but it is still worth looking into.

"When you push that beautiful baby out of your body, you will enter the most wonderful phase of your life..." Wren leans into me and whispers into my ears, "Когда я вытолкну этого огромного ребенка из моей вагины, в нашей жизни не наступит чудесный период. В ней настанет время, когда у меня на футболке все время будут пятна от молока, а ты забудешь, что такое сон." _When I push this giant baby out of my vagina, there will be no wonderful phase in our life. I'll have milk stains on my tee on my boobs, and you will forget what sleep is._

And they say Russians are optimists. And then she strokes my thigh, "О, и не забудь про разрывы и трещины, ребенок у тебя будет, конечно, размером с пискап, так что никаких попрыгушек месяца три." _And don't forget about tears and cracks, your kid will be the size of a pickup truck, so no sex for at least three months._

She calls sex _попрыгушки_, which literally means "hopping" or "bobbing", and you find it adorable. A woman who can pour a bucket of the dirties swearings there exist in English language, can't say "intercourse" in her mothertongue. I pat her knee.

And then they start passing some books. I groan internally. She can tolerate, though with difficulty, the droning at the background, she probably blocks it out and is thinking of an apple fritter, but once the rambling about fishbowls and meditative music during delivery gains a corporeal form of an actual book, there will be nothing that could mollify the fire tornado that is my dearest spouse.

She picks up a copy and wrinkles her nose. And then she shows me the cover: _You, Nature, and Delivery_. There is a picture of a happy looking lady is a lotus pose with a tiny baby drawn on her round stomach. The baby is a size of an apple. Wren lifts a brow, "Пикап, Джон, огромный грузовик. Полный привод." _Pick-up, John, a huge truck. Four wheel drive._

Women and their exaggeratedly attentive husbands are studying their copies of the book. "Dodge Dakota, Ford Supercrew, GMC Sierra, Chevrolet Colorado..." She is murmuring into my ear almost erotically. Have I mentioned that my wife who looks like an Old English fay, speaks like the Duchess of York, swears like a sailor and cooks like the best of Russian wives, is also a pick-up crazy daughter of prairies?

"Let us talk about the incense that you want to accompany you into the magical words of delivering your child in our beautiful world..." That is the limit of Wren's patience. She slams the book into the carpet everyone is sitting on, in "a circle of acceptance and understanding", and jumps on her feet. She told me that everyone in the group hates her because she can still do it in her seven months. If others in the room knew the flexibility she retained in her small body and repeatedly showed in bed this morning, they would probably throw rotten vegetables at her and pull her copper hair out. Apparently, they were not very kind to her during the first class, suggesting she should come back in three months, or when she is actually pregnant. And then they hissed at her when she couldn't come up with a weird craving she had. She actually sniffed when telling this story, which had never happened before, crying is for wusses, and that's when I suggested to go with her.

"Alrighty, you can go on with this rubbish," she beckons me with a snooty waving of her delicate fingers, and I get up with a sigh. And then she looks around the room, into the eyes of other pregnant women and their probably hungry husbands, "And I am going to indulge in a maple glazed doughnut and some Timbits right now. Try getting this thought out of your heads."

She picks up her handbag from the floor and marches to the doors. All I can do is plod after her. Who needs the classes anyways, she is a M.D. and her Russian stubbornness will help her endure through pretty much anything. I catch up with her and see that the frown is already gone. She is smiling blissfully, no doubt daydreaming of Timbits. I swirl her around and catch her mouth. She hums and wraps her arms around my neck. "Люблю тебя." "I love you too, sweet. Let's get you your sugar fix." We hold hands and head out.


	21. Cool Frog

**A/N: This one will be different, my lovelies! It is co-written with RagdollPrincess. Initially based on her song prompt, _I'm in Love with a Big Blue Frog_ by Peter, Paul, and Mary (which is so crazy if you combine it with Middle earth in your head:D), the story turned into a co-writing fest :) Reese, Kili's beloved, is her OC and I can't imagine him with anybody else anymore :) Check out her stories, so worth it! And might be useful later *wink* Collaborating turned out so sweet that we hardly will be able to stay away from it! :D**

_1976, Winnipeg Folk Festival_

The girl stumbled on a root and swore under her breath. The old habit of not mentioning the name in vain made her halt for a second after that, and she shook her head. You can take a girl from an oppressive religious upbringing, but you can't turn her into a liberal independent woman right away. At least not without some booze.

The fire was warm and welcoming, and she looked at the faces of five people sitting around it. Well, four, the fifth was sitting slightly aside, leaning on a tree. The dark haired hunk caressing the guitar smiled back, white toothed inviting grin. She came closer, and he winked.

She slid on a log near him, and he bumped his shoulder into hers. "What's your name, foxy?"

"Wren," it was not her name really, but she was a free bird these days. And no way in hell she would ever admit being named Eunice Edna.

"Killian, and that's my brother Phil." The blond was even hotter, shagadelic to her taste. Or not. She could never choose between chocolate and butterscotch. She was a real daughter of the prairies. She liked both in her fudge.

The other two sitting there were a young skinny kid, probably around seventeen, and an immensely foxy chick. For a second Wren thought that if given a choice she would go for the girl instead of either of the brothers. Short dark hair cut like a pixie's, lively brown eyes, striking cheekbones. Wren especially liked the mouth, sensual and strong, she could imagine that is a mouth of a person who laughs a lot. The girl smiled and stretched her hand, "Reese." The voice was sexy and warm, and Wren smiled wider.

Wren liked the combination of confidence and femininity surrounding Reese's small but curvy body. In a gauzy blue peasant top that left her shoulders bare, and soft denim bell bottoms, she looked chill and endlessly appetizing. She had graceful collarbones and slender wrists. Yes, Wren definitely liked her a lot.

"That's my Uncle John there," Killian waved his hand towards the fifth one. He seemed to be sleeping, large heavy body leaning on the trunk. "And that's Orwell." Wren shook the youngest kid's hand and a feeling of kinship flooded her. Another child of Steinbeck no doubt. "Do you sing, Wren?"

"Lord, no!" she squeaked. She was honestly straightforward horrible.

"Uncle, will you sing with us?" The guy by the tree slightly turned his head towards the fire and opened his eyes. They were so bright blue, and Wren felt heat pooling in her underwear. Once his face was lit with the fire, she realized that she was not having any butterscotch or chocolate tonight. She was indulging in a copious amount of that aged Canadian Club.

He smirked lopsidedly, "Not if you are holding the guitar, kid. Stop torturing the instrument and give it to your girl."

Killian sighed and passed the guitar to Reese. She had to stand to take it from him and dipped in for a lingering kiss before she settled back, throwing the guitar strap over her neck. She began plucking at the strings experimentally. "You didn't have it tuned, baby," she murmured distractedly before tightening the strings. Killian only laughed and shrugged while his uncle snorted behind him.

"Any requests?" she asked, glancing around the circle. Everyone shook their head, and so she dropped her gaze back to the strings before picking up a slow folk tune. "Reminiscent of Woodstock," Reese said as the tune took melody, conjuring images and memories of 1969.

Glancing up at the new addition to the group, she added, "I don't like to sing either, but don't any of you hold back now, you know," with a grin and a wink at Wren, noticing the redhead's wide open curious eyes, before dropping back to concentrate on the strings.

Reese hadn't missed the way Wren's eyes had lingered on John as he sat brooding by the tree before returning her gaze to the fire. She was really drawn to the new girl. She loved her dress, belted at the waist and falling to the ground. She loved how it was a shocking shade of pink that clashed horribly with her red hair, which Reese was terribly jealous of. She'd always wanted long curly red hair and would definitely have worn it with bright pink of she'd had it. As a rule Reese avoided pink because everyone always told her how good it looked with her dark hair, making her feel like a cupcake.

Reese also loved Wren's freckles and admired how the freckles served to add to Wren's beauty, standing out on her porcelain white skin. They even sprayed across her adorable delicate nose. Her eyes were slightly slanted, and Reese wondered if she were to get a close look if she'd find that they were green. It would be too perfect if she did find them to be green.

Wren's red lips appeared to be quirked in a permanent smile, and the entire effect gave her the appearance of an exotic wood nymph, playful and mischievous. Appearances aside though, she loved how Wren had just fallen in with them so easily. She seemed friendly and chill and like she could be a lot of fun.

Reese was thoughtful as she continued to strum quietly. Killian's uncle was a good guy but had a tendency to come across as brooding, almost sulky. Maybe it was the result of having to help his sister raise his nephews after their father had died, and the brooding and serious demeanor had simply become a habit. They'd talked him into coming to the festival with them in hopes that he would kick back and have a good time. She always enjoyed his company, but she'd never really seen him relax in all of the eight years she and Killian had been together. Maybe it was premature, but possibly this Wren girl was just what they'd hoped to find to help John relax a bit.

Wren sat and listened to Reese's quiet soft voice, when she heard John joining in. Her eyebrows hiked up, surprised that he even knew the words. Seemingly without any effort he was following the melody, his voice deep and smoky. And then she fully realized the effect his low velvet was having on her body. Tingly little shocks were running through her spine. She shivered and turned to look at him.

He still looked rather peevish, but it was obvious he enjoyed singing. His posture was relaxed, but she worked with men every day and knew that that was a fake laid back attitude. The guy was uncomfortable. And then his nephew offered a wonderful solution to that problem.

Killian lit up a joint. "Do you smoke?"

"Not cigarettes," Wren smiled coyly, and Killian chuckled as he passed it to her. Wren inhaled deeply before passing it to Phil, who then gave it back to her, skipping Orwell.

"Come on, guys," Orwell whined as the brothers laughed at his disappointment.

"Sorry buddy," Phil said. "We're not that loose. Give it a couple years."

Killian settled beside Reese, bringing the joint to her lips so that she didn't need to stop playing. She felt the electrical charge from his nearness that was always present, even after eight years together. He pulled the joint away as she inhaled before bringing his lips to hers, surprising her and making her cough. "Jesus," she sputtered. "I hate it when you do that." He laughed at her playfully, and she couldn't help joining him. He stood and moved behind her, nestling her between his legs as he rubbed her back while she coughed.

Killian leaned backwards and passed the joint to his uncle, who to Wren's surprise took it. She tried not to look, but the thought of his lips closing on it made her peek. The view didn't disappoint. The fingers were long, palm large, and she absolutely loved the way he hollowed his cheeks under a thick black beard breathing in.

Finally able to stop coughing, Reese resumed playing. "You're a goof," she huffed at Killian, catching Wren's eyes and winking at her again, liking how Wren grinned back at her.

"Do you like Peter, Paul, and Mary?" Reese asked her before switching to a more playful song, targeted at Killian. "I'm in love with a big blue frog and a big blue frog love me." All but Killian joined in on the next line, "It's not as bad as it appears. He wears glasses and he's six foot three!" before erupting into laughter at his expense.

Reese felt Killian laughing too before he leaned forward to murmur, "Very funny," and then playfully nipped at her ear, making goosebumps rise on her skin.

John got up and came to the fire. He sat on the log near Orwell, who immediately tensed. Wren didn't blame him, the guy was intimidating. Large wide body, dark hair in a ponytail, an overall gloomy disposition. She couldn't wait to sink her teeth in it. She caught Orwell's eyes and gave him an encouraging wink. He blushed.

John leaned and picked up a bottle of beer. And then he pushed another one in Orwell's hand. The kid's face lit up. "Not for you, pass it to our guest." Orwell's face dropped but he grabbed the bottle and got up. He made a few steps towards Wren, but she was faster. In a swift move she got up, picked up the beer from his hand and flopped into Orwell's empty seat. She smiled into John's widened eyes and took a swig. "Hi." The heavy brows hiked up.

Orwen shifted between his feet confusedly before sitting in Wren's place. Phil clapped him on the back and turned to the girl, "So what is it that you do, Wren?"

"I work in Dominion Motors."

"Really?" Phil's bafflement was mirrored on others' faces as well.

"Do you take calls?" John's low voice made her turn to him. She chuckled and put the bottle on the ground. Then she splayed her fingers and showed her hands, first to him and then to the rest of the group. They were calloused and black from the oil and grime that could never come off completely.

"I fix engines, and you are a chauvinistic pig." Her tone was light though, and she bumped her shoulder into him. He was staring at her. She drank some more beer and licked her lips.

Orwell expressed everyone's opinion when he breathed out, "Wicked..."

Wren looked at John appraisingly. "You are the grumpy uptight type, aren't you?" She suddenly pushed her small hands into his hair, and he choked on his drink. "You need a couple braids in here. To match the gig, you know." She was so obviously teasing him that Killian roared with laughter. She shook her copper mane, "I can sacrifice a couple of my beads for you." She laughed into his stunned face and winked to Reese.

Reese bit back a grin, surprised but not disliking Wren's forwardness, and changed the tune again, the song familiar, and the group started to sing when Killian murmured into Reese's again, "Did you see how the little bird is looking at uncle?" Reese nodded, not wanting to risk being heard but glad the singing drowned out his lower voice.

Killian continued to nuzzle Reese's ear lightly, and she finally whispered. "You don't think she's a little young for him?"

Killian snorted. "She doesn't seem to care. Age is just a number."

Reese smiled at his cavalier attitude. He could never let things happen on their own, though, and her eyes widened in alarm as he whispered suddenly, "I have a fab idea." Killian's ideas didn't always turn out well.

"Orwell, Phil, can you guys jog back to the car to grab more beer? I think we just finished the last of it."

"Right on!" said Orwell, jumping to his feet eager to please. Phil was more reluctant.

"Get it yourself, you chump," he muttered.

"I'm busy," Killian said, nuzzling into Reese's shoulder. Reese was sure he wore the pouty look he got that Phil could never resist in him. Killian knew his audience well.

Phil sighed loudly and dramatically as he rose to his feet, muttering as Orwell took off at a run. Reese wondered what Killian was up to, thinking it was horribly unfair of him to get his brother to walk so far. The car was easily a thirty minute walk each way. Phil really would do anything for Killian.

Suddenly Killian stood up, pulling a surprised Reese to her feet with him. "Excuse us," he said unceremoniously. His uncle snorted as Killian caught Reese's lips in a dramatic, heated kiss, leaving no question about the reason for his sudden desire to pull her out of the clearing and into the surrounding bushes.

Reese glanced apologetically at Wren as she rested the guitar on the ground. "We'll be back."

Wren's answer proved Reese's suspicion that the girl was a kindred soul and that John was so in for it. "Take your time," the redhead saluted them with her beer, and they stumbled into the bushes with laughter, Killian grabbing her by the hand and twirling her a couple times as they went.

Wren looked at the backs of the leaving couple. They were so groovy, and acute envy clenched her heart. There was a heated passion between them, and a warm intimacy, and an obvious ardent friendship. The way he was hugging her from behind, their bodies fitting like two pieces of puzzle, as cliche as it sounded even in her head, showed the obvious connection between them. They were a beautiful couple, her perky and robust bosom, shapely hips, tiny waist, his wide shoulders, narrow hips, the way they moved in accordance, their bodies constantly touching. Wren mused that they obviously had the best of both a long time couple with their familiarity and connectivity, and a still burning fire of those who just became lovers. Wren sighed and looked at the man she was left with alone.

He sat seemingly relaxed, elbows on his knees, large hands loosely hanging between his long legs. Wren peaked, the bottle in his hand was almost empty. She thought she saw a bit of flush on the cheekbones, and she hoped that would make him a bit more chill.

"So what is it that you do, John?" He looked at her from the corner of his eye.

"I teach computer science at the university."

"You are a prof? That's so far out!" He lifted a brow. "Do your students leave an apple on your table, John?" He sat up straighter and looked at her attentively.

"You are an odd one, Wren."

"You will find, John, that the right term is a shick chick," she smiled wider and clanked her bottle to his.

And then she moved closer so that her shoulder was touching his upper arm. He was so much bigger that she had to lift her face to look him in the eyes. "You have no idea how to mellow out, do you?" His lips twitched in a suppressed smile.

"That's what my nephews always say. That I need to mellow out," he mockingly drew out the term as if emphasizing its evident preposterousness.

"As a prof you should understand that it all comes down to the choice of teaching material," she took the bottle from his hand, and he followed it with his eyes. And then she got up and stood in front of him. For once he needed to lift his face to look at her. She cupped his face and gently scratched the beard.

She licked her lips stretching the anticipation. He was not resisting but neither did he encourage her in any way. She moved even closer, between his knees, and her little palms slid on his ears. She rubbed the pinnae and pulling slightly she tilted his head back some more. He obeyed, and she lowered her lips on his.

She started gently, soft caresses of slightly open lips, the tip of her tongue sliding on his bottom lip. He inhaled sharply, and his palms lay on her waist. She smiled into the kiss, and slid one hand at the back of his head, down the neck and under the collar of his blue button-up. The fingers of another hand leapt onto the buttons on his shirt, opening three of them and then she returned her palm to his nape. She pushed both hands around his shoulder down his back. Her upper body presses into him, and he finally tightened his grip on her.

He either had been holding himself back before, or he was a quick learner, but he started catching up with her, her scorching palms sliding down and grabbing her buttocks. She chuckled and nipped his lip. The hands squeezed her bum.

She stepped back and tilted her head. She gave him a look over, enjoying the view of flushed cheeks and slightly swollen lips. He frowned in confusion. And then she stretched her hand to him. "Common, do you really want to stay here and your nephews to catch you making out with a random bird?"

He placed his hand into her small strong hand, and she pulled him up. "Where are we going?" He had to clear out his throat, his voice gruff.

"Well, it will be hard to find an unoccupied patch, but I'm sure we'll manage."

She led him among the trees, peeking at him from time to time. His face was increasingly hesitant, and she realized he needed reminding why he even went with her. She sharply turned around and pushed his back into the nearest tree. And then she actually jumped a little and pulled him down to herself.

"You are wickedly tall, dude," she smiled into his eyes, "You'll have to meet me halfway here, John." He paused a second and then making an internal decision he pressed his lips to hers. He tasted delicious, and she moaned into his mouth.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and this time he started backing her up, until she smacked her back into a trunk. And then he placed his hands on the tree, on the sides of her head, bending down, deepening the kiss.

"It's best if you sit, John," he hummed in agreement, obviously having not heard what she said. She chuckled and slightly pushed him away from her neck, that he was sucking on. "Sit!" His brows jumped up, and he gave her an impish smirk. That was a new expression, and suddenly she thought she might have bitten off way more that she could chew. But it was too late to back up. And besides, he was delectable!

He spun them around and sat down, his back to the tree. While sitting down he managed to brush the tip of his nose to one of her breasts, and she giggled.

"You are full of delightful surprises, aren't you John?" He grabbed her hand and pulled her down. She picked up her skirt and lowered herself, straddling him. He cupped the back of her head, threading his fingers into her mane, and for a second he paused and looked into her laughing eyes.

Whatever he saw there seemed to convince him he was doing the right thing, and he caught her mouth. Kissing, learning each other, hands exploring bodies, her fingers deftly opened the rest of his buttons. Normally Wren would go for less chest hair, less mass, and less of everything, to be honest, but his wide chest, hot skin, hard muscles felt surprisingly perfect. She trailed her tongue along his neck and gently bit into his jaw. The beard added to the experience.

His hands were on her shoulder blades, and he felt a row of buttons on the back of the dress. He managed four and then growled in frustration. She chuckled, "Don't you dare ruining my dress, you putz!" He lifted a brow. "No," she drew her brows together in a mocking strict grimace, and he chuckled.

"You are a bossy one," somehow he sounded pleased with it.

"I am also very skinny," she laughed and shimmied her shoulders out of the top of the dress. It pooled on her waist.

"Convenient," he smirked and unclasped her bra. She helped him pull it off, and his large palms covered the small peaks.

"Not much to offer here, sorry," she gave him a cheeky grin.

"They are perfect," he pulled her for an unhurried kiss. They somehow slowed down and spent some time exploring more. And then she pushed her hand in a pocket and pulled out a condom.

"I see you came prepared."

"I used to be a Girl Guide. Not quite a scout, but I'm all for their motto, you know," she pushed from him for a second and her fingers slid on the buckle of his jeans.

A bit of shuffling, and her strong hand encircled his cock. He puffed air out. "It's been a while." She cocked her head on the side.

"Well, it's like riding a bike," she rolled the condom over him, and lifted her body over him. He placed his palms under her knees, and she giggled.

"Ticklish?" He smiled back at her, and then the palms slid up, bunching up the skirt, and he hooked his fingers on the waist of her underwear. With this problem solved, she lowered herself on him.

She went slowly, it had been a while for her too, and with his rather impressive length finally buried in her, she realized she'd been holding her breath and exhaled. He was taking measured breaths too.

"I know you are probably feeling a bit impatient here, but can we do something for me, John?" Her tone was surprisingly even and polite. He blinked, trying really hard to concentrate on her.

"Sure, what can I do you for?" She chuckled at the pun and quickly kissed his lips.

"Can I turn around? It really works so much better for me."

"Turn around whe…?" He choked on his question when she swung her leg on the other side on his body, and then slowly turned her whole body, her pelvis still firmly pressed into him, now she was facing away from him.

He sat up and pushed her hair away from her nape. Then he presses his lips to the smooth skin there, and his palms slid on her breasts. She arched into him and started moving. He could not keep the loud groan back.

Her hips setting a nice forceful rhythm, her arms thrown back, wrapped around his neck, his mouth pressing greedy open-mouthed kisses to her neck and shoulders, they were moving in a surprising for their first time accordance. He encircled her tiny waist with his hands, index fingers and thumbs almost meeting around it, but soon the palms slid on the hips, helping her move.

She was right, the position was definitely working for her. Soon enough she was making small adorable mewling noises and painfully grabbing handfuls of his hair. He knew he was going to cum any moment and to his own surprise he realized he really needed her to go first.

A new woman, a new body to deal with, he could only rely on his guts. One hand still caressing her breast, he slid another down onto her clit and gently rubbed the bundle of nerves. She moaned louder but it was hard to say if he was making any progress. She was apparently very vocal in general. And he really couldn't muster enough coherence to ask.

He bit into her shoulder, holding back with the remnants of his will power, when she grabbed his hand and roughly pressed it to her clit. In a sudden surge of inspiration he pressed his thumb to it and gave it a forceful swirl. She cried out and came.

Her muscles clenched around him. He barked a swear. She was tight to start with, now it felt like she was choking him. In the best possible of ways. He groaned and came as well. She fell ahead, her small palms pressed into his legs, small body shaking, delicate back in front of his eyes. And in the last moment before his brain turned off completely, he grabbed her and pulled to himself.

She twisted her neck and he caught her mouth in an askew kiss. She moaned into his mouth, her walls still milking him, and he moaned as well. He fell back, the bark of a tree scratching his back through the shirt that they hadn't taken off. She relaxed into his body, and suddenly picked up his hand. She pulled it to her lips and kissed the inside of his wrist. A caress was unexpected and unusual, but wasn't everything about her?

He nuzzled her hair and then chuckled. "Are you thinking of how your nephew set us up so smoothly?" He froze in surprise. That was exactly what he was thinking about. "They are fab, I hope they are having fun in the bushes as well." John didn't miss the "as well".

She slid off him, and he groaned. Then she turned around and sit on his legs just above his knees. "I think I really like you, John." He licked his lips.

"I think I really like you back." She smiled.

"Then let's make it worthwhile. After all your nephew and his foxy chick now have to wonder through woods to give us some room. Might as well enjoy it to the max."

Reese and Killian had fallen silent as they moved deeper into the trees. They didn't speak at all, comfortably waiting until they were alone. They had to walk quite a distance, passing several other groups and couples, before finally reaching a secluded area that afforded them some privacy.

"So," Reese began lightly as they stopped in a small clearing far from the noise of the festival, "Do you think you've managed to weave your magic around your uncle and that poor girl?"

"Was is too much?" he asked, suddenly sounding insecure in his impulsive decision. This was a side of Killian only she and Phil got to see, the one that worried about what others thought of him, whose confidence was constantly quaking, so different from the spirited self assurance he was careful to portray when around others.

"No," she reassured him as she pulled him into a kiss. "Although we'll see what Phil says after he's done hiking to the car to find you didn't forget any beer there." Killian laughed, a lot less concerned about what Phil thought of him than what John did.

"I hope he goes for it," he mused as she began to unbutton his shirt. "He seems so lonely."

Reese murmured her agreement as she kissed the skin revealed behind each button of his shirt. "I just worry so much that he's going to be alone for ever, you know?" Killian continued as Reese nodded and she pushed his shirt back from his shoulders. She loved his broad shoulders and brought her mouth to nuzzle gently as his collarbone before carefully trailing her tongue to his shoulder. She brought her hands to his wrists and firmly slid her hands up his arms, bringing them to toy with the shaggy hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck.

"I just hope he goes for it," Killian murmured again, distractedly. Reese wondered if John knew how much Killian worried about him. His brow was furrowed and he didn't seem to have noticed that she was toying with the waist of his pants, trailing her fingers over the sensitive skin by his hips.

"Baby," she murmured, "Did you drag me all the way out here just to talk about your uncle?"

Killian blinked in surprise before looking down at her as though he'd forgotten she was there. He stared at her for a moment before grinning and dropping his head to capture her lips with is. "Sorry," he murmured as he brought his hand up to cup her face gently, his kiss deep and slow. Breaking the kiss he murmured against her lips, "Is that better?" She nodded as he kissed her softly again before moving to place light kisses along her jaw. Reese dropped her head back with a sigh as Killian ran his tongue down the side of her neck to her shoulder, nipping gently at her collarbone.

"She's very sexy, don't you think?" Reese mused as Kili's mouth moved to her bare shoulder, his hands straying underneath her loose shirt to gently stroke the skin at her lower back. He paused, raising his head to look at her again, one eyebrow quirked. Reese smirked at him before she continued, "Don't be a goof. But I wouldn't kick her out of bed."

He laughed as he pulled her tunic up over her head, baring her breasts to the cool night air. They'd always joked about the possibility of bringing someone else into their bed but hadn't ever pursued it, despite living in the time of free love. Killian dropped his hands to her hips and stood considering her. "I could never share you with anyone," he said as his eyes came to gaze into hers.

She shook her head, bringing her arms up to hang loosely over his shoulders. "Me neither," she whispered as he moved in to kiss her again, never breaking their gaze. He stopped just before his lips touched hers.

"I love you," he whispered, his breath tickling the skin of her upper lip.

"I love you too," she answered as she closed the remaining distance between their mouths. As their lips moved over each others'. Killian dropped his hands to cup Reese's breasts, weighing them gently as his thumb grazed over the peak. She moaned softly while he continued to circle her nipples with his thumbs, slowly teasing them into hard points. He grinned as she moaned again. As much as Killian experienced insecurity in his day to day life, this was an area where his confidence never wavered.

Reese's hands dropped to his waist as she unbuttoned his jeans. He of course wasn't wearing underwear. He never did.

She tickled the sensitive skin between his hips, slowly unzipping his fly. Reese grazed his pelvis with her nails, making him break their kiss as he moaned in protest when her hands stopped at the base of his cock, leaving it trapped in his pants. She wanted to slow things down, even briefly, wanting to fully enjoy this moment of privacy together.

Killian leaned his forehead against hers while his hands dropped to her waist, breathing deeply as she stroked her hands up his abdomen, his muscles rippling slightly at the light touch, before skimming her nails down towards his straining erection again. This time she tugged his jeans lightly, pulling them down just enough that his erection could spring free, hanging heavily between his legs. Rather than touching him, she dragged her hands over his hips while dropping her mouth to capture his nipple, nipping lightly before circling it with her tongue while her hands trailed to his jeans now slung low on his hips, stopping to dip into the cleft between his buttocks. Killian dropped his head back in a moan, his eyes fluttering shut, as she traced her fingers downwards, dragging them lightly between his ass cheeks, pushing his pants over his hips as they fell to his ankles. As her fingers reached the bottom of his bum, dipping lightly between his legs, she drew them around his hips again to finally grasp his straining cock in her hands.

This time the growl issued from Killian was low and raw as he brought his mouth to hers in a bruising kiss while thrusting his hips forward, rutting his cock against her hand. Suddenly hungry and demanding, he quickly kicked off his boots and jeans, pushing her to the ground to lie beneath him. She didn't mind the feel of the cold ground against her skin, drinking in the scent of the earth and trees in the cool night air.

Reese gasped as Killian caught her nipple in his mouth, biting it lightly before moving his mouth down her abdomen until he arrived at the waist of her denim bell bottoms. Undoing her fly, he brought his hands to her back to lift her hips as he drew her pants off, tossing them aside as he spread her legs to settle between them, lowering his mouth to her.

Reese cried out quietly as he ran his tongue over her folds before bringing it to circle her clit lightly. Planting her feet firmly she whimpered as she drove her hips upward trying to grind into him as he flicked his tongue. "Alright my love," he laughed as he brought his hands to her, slowly sliding a long finger into her while continuing to expertly swirl her clit with his tongue. Reese whimpered at the feel of his finger inside of her, groaning as he curled his finger upwards to stroke the bundle of nerves against her inner wall. She continued to drive herself down onto his hand as he added two more fingers, stretching her deliciously as he continued to lave her clit.

Reese threw one arm over her eyes as she always did when she felt herself approaching orgasm while Killian was going down on her. Her mind was flooded with tantalizing images and memories of all the sex they'd had together. A particularly arousing image of their spending their five year anniversary at a swingers' party floated into her mind. Although they were unwilling to share each other with anyone else, they had no issues with enjoying each other in front of an audience. It had been one of the sexiest evenings they'd spent together, and its memories frequently served to hasten her climax.

Reese held her breath before groaning as her orgasm took her, becoming rigid as she bucked her hips upwards. Killian's mouth latched onto her clitoris, prolonging the torrent that gripped her body. Not waiting too long, Killian rose up above her and positioned himself between her legs before plunging deeply into her. Reese sobbed as he filled her completely, her knees rising up beside his hips to allow him to push deeply into her. Killian groaned as she clenched her muscles around him to draw him in fully. They clung to each other, taking a moment to breathe, before Killian withdrew slowly and thrust back into Reese as she tangled her arms around his back, arching forward to bury her face in his neck and rock her hips forward to meet his.

Reese felt her orgasm mounting again as their bodies moved together and before long violent pleasure tore through her. Reese writhed beneath Killian as her muscles clenched him tightly, making him groan deeply as he continued to snap his hips forward. Killian's breath caught as his eyes squeeze tightly shut, his movements becoming erratic as a moan caught in his throat. He thrust into Reese deeply as he came, a strangled groan wrenched from his body.

Killian collapsed over her, gasping for breath. He was heavy on top of her, and Reese rolled her shoulder slightly forward to prop him up so that she was still able to draw breathe comfortably while he recovered. She stroked his back gently, his skin slick with sweat, before Killian rolled off of her suddenly, withdrawing from her and releasing a gush of fluid over her thighs. They lay beside each other, looking up at the dark night sky with their hands tangled together.

Killian broke the silence first. "Do you think it's too early to go back?"

Reese shrugged. "Who knows. Phil and Orwell will be back soon anyway so we might as well." She rolled towards him, stretching to kiss him lightly on his scruff before they rose to their feet, looking for discarded clothing in the dark. They were silent again as they made their way back through the trees towards the camp.

Reese woke the next day curled into Killian's warmth, pale light of the morning filtering through the fabric of the tent. She could hear the crackling of a fire, assuming it was likely built by Phil who tended to wake early. She could hear him moving around the campsite carefully. Reese rolled slowly, careful not to wake Killian, as she drew a loose dress and bulky sweater over her naked body, before quietly exiting the tent.

Moving towards the campfire she smiled at Phil. "Good morning," she murmured quietly, not wishing to make noise that would wake the others. Orwell was also still sleeping. "Any sign of John this morning?" she asked. When Reese and Killian had returned to the campsite, Phil and Orwell had been back but both John and Wren were gone. John hadn't been in his tent when they'd checked it, and Killian had been delighted.

"It doesn't mean that they're together, you know," Reese had said, but Killian had been positive that John and Wren had snuck off somewhere to shag.

Phil shook his head but added, "I heard him go into his tent last night around 3 a.m." Reese smiled at him fondly. Knowing Phil, he had likely been waiting up for their uncle, slightly worried that something may have happened to him. Phil and Killian were often getting into trouble, but Phil was mostly dragged along by Killian out of desire to protect Killian from disaster. Phil was always taking care of everyone, worrying and making sure they were all okay.

"Cool," Reese said as she settled on a log, pulling her sweater around her against the dewy morning. She could hear a band starting up at the main stage but knew it was unlikely any of their group would find their way to the stage for hours. Orwell could sleep until supper if permitted, and when Killian woke he tended to be peevish, not quite the morning person one would expect in someone normally so upbeat and chipper.

Reese and Phil sat in silence staring into the fire when suddenly their reverie was broken by a low growl followed by a giggle. Reese's head whipped towards the noise, determining that it was in fact coming from John's tent. The giggle had definitely been made by a female. Never in her life could she imagine John, or any Durinson for that matter, giggling. Her jaw dropped as she quickly turned back to look at Phil, whose features mirrored her own surprised delight. Reese settled more comfortably onto the log, grinning at Phil as they relaxed back into silence.

After several minutes, the silence was broken again by another moan, this one slightly louder than the first, followed by a quiet hushing noise. Reese clapped her hand over her mouth this time as her eyes caught Phil's again, barely able to stifle a laugh. Phil looked torn between wanting to laugh himself and pain at bearing active witness to his uncles' sexual exploits. Even in the age of free love, everyone had their limits.

Reese barely suppressed a snort as another low moan, definitely John's, came from the tent, and Phil dropped his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Looking up at her over his hands, he shook his head in dismay.

Reese jerked her head towards the entrance to the site questioningly and mimed walking with her hands. Killian and Orwell were both heavy sleepers and would not be woken by the lovers' soft sounds, but Reese was more interested in a calm relaxed walk than trying to ignore the sexual show going on only ten feet away. Phil nodded gratefully, and they both rose to their feet, ready to vacate the area and allow the lovers some privacy.

It seemed that Reese was more concerned about John and Wren's privacy than they were, though, as the noises from the tent reached a fevered pitch and a female voice cried out. "Oh god, oh god, oh god!"

Reese froze, her eyes as large as saucers as she looked at Phil who stood rigid in the spot, horror plastered across his features .

"Wren, you are too loud..." John's low voice growled, only to be interrupted by Wren's commanding tone.

"Put your mouth back when you had it!"

Reese and Phil turned quickly, moving away from the campsite as quickly as possible, unsuccessfully as they heard Wren cry out shamelessly as she presumably achieved her climax via John's ministrations. This event was closely followed by the sound of a tent unzipping. Reese looked over to see Killian standing in the entrance to their tent, stark naked, holding her straw cowboy hat in front of his crotch, hair wildly disheveled, red lines down the side of his face where the blankets had been bunched under his cheek while he slept, with a look of fury on his face. "Who is being so fucking loud?" he shouted crossly. "It's barely dawn, and I'm trying to god damn fucking sleep."

"Watch your tongue, Killian!" John's booming voice came from the tent, and Reese bit her lip so that Kili wouldn't see her laugh. John was always a guardian, even with his face apparently between a girl's legs.

"And you put yours back to use," Wren's voice was both assertive and seductive.

This was too much for Phil who was now crouched on the ground, holding his head in his hands as he groaned. Reese stood shaking her head as she took in all of Killian's furious naked glory, particularly enjoying the full view of his backside as he turned back into the tent, crushing her hat as he flopped forward on his stomach to presumably go back to sleep, not even bothering to close the door of the tent again. She noticed not a sound came from John's tent now and one would never had guessed at the lascivious noises that had been issued by its occupants only moments before.

Orwell crawled out of the tent he was sharing with Phil and groggily made his way over to the fire, rubbing his eyes. "Hey, what's going on?" he muttered sleepily, clearly not expecting an answer as he sat down, yawning widely.

Reese and Phil looked at each other and shrugged. Abandoning their walk, Reese busied herself with making coffee while Phil asked Orwell if he wanted breakfast. Kili's loud snores told them he had returned to sleep and permeated their discussion as Phil and Orwell began to laugh about some of the antics they'd seen other festival goers up to during their walk to the car.

Reese moved to her tent and reached into the open door to pull out her guitar, murmuring, "Hey Baby," to Killian as she jostled him gently, disrupting his snores. He groaned in protest as she said, "There's coffee."

Reese returned to the fire and began to strum her guitar quietly, laughing along with Phil and Orwell's stories as the smell of toast and potatoes began to permeate the campfire. Killian finally came to join them, his pants barely hanging from his naked hips as he stumbled to the fire, holding a t-shirt in his hand. He sat beside Reese with a groan who set aside her guitar briefly and reached to pour him a cup of coffee, pushing it into his hands. He grunted in thanks and she saw the hint of a reluctant smile quirk his lips.

Suddenly they quieted as they heard loud laughter coming from John's tent, followed by Wren's voice. "Stop tickling me, you brute!"

Reese heard John guffaw and raised her eyebrows at Killian, wondering if she'd ever heard John sound so relaxed before. The sound of the zipper on John's tent followed, and he literally fell out of the tent to the ground, laughing. Reese grinned at the scene, not missing the flash of a pink bead in his hair attached to the end of a long braid by his ear.

Wren coolly stepped over John, her posture dignified and proud. Reese had to bite her lip again to keep from laughing as Wren regally surveyed the group before her, Phil staring at her and Kili glowering again, while Orwell looked around in confusion.

And then Reese couldn't help but applaud laughingly as Wren suddenly swept into a low bow before her audience, her unruly curls bouncing and burning in the morning sun.


	22. Nirvana

**A/N: Here you go, ****Count Rabbit****, just like you asked! Back to Biker!Thorin and thank you for the song prompt! Can I have my virtual box of cookies now? :P**

_**Come As You Are **_**by Nirvana**

"You are such a prick!" You rush out of the joint, and the door slams behind you. Only to be kicked open again. He storms out, teeth bared in a snarl, massive hands clenched in fists. "Get back in there right now!"

You swirl on your heels, "Or what? I am not your thing, you tosser! You don't get to drive me like your bike!" He steps closer, towering over you, wide body clad in black leather. "Don't ball me up, woman!" "Oh don't give me your biker's tosh!" You point your finger at his long nose. "I am not your brainless bint!" He grabs your upper arm. "You might not be a bint, but you are exactly mine! Now get your backside into the joint!"

You jerk your arm out of his grip and start walking away. "If you leave now, don't come back!" You know him well, that is not a hundred per cent sure tone. And let's face, that is not your first row. Frankly having a row seems to be the thing you two mostly do. And then wild shagging afterwards. Works for you.

He predictably catches up with you and pushes you into the wall. His hot palm pushes up your thigh, under the leather mini, and without further ado he cups between your legs. Never fails with you. He catches your mouth, and the second hand jerks the collar of your new black sequin top. You really made an effort for him today.

"Careful, you wanker!" You twist your mouth from under his greedy lips, "It is a hundred quid." "I'll buy you another," he jerks it down and grabs your tit through the black lace of you bra. The fingers of his other hand slide under the knickers, and he dips them into you. You moan and bite his beard covered jaw. You are leaving your favourite part for a wee bit later.

He swirls you with surprising dexterity, fingers continuing to pump into you, and pushes you into the dark alley behind the joint. You momentarily remember that's where it all started, and you heat up more. You shove your hands into his hair and finally indulge yourself. You lower your mouth on his neck and give the tattoo a long, languished lick. He growls. He really appreciates that trick of yours.

The black flames of ink come from the between his shoulder blades, lick the shoulder and upper arm and sneak behind his right ear. That's where you mouth is going right now as well. And then you bite into his ear. Hard. He jerks his hand out of your fanny and slams you into the wall.

You try to fall on your knees, your hands already on the buckle of his leather trousers, but he presses your shoulder into the brickwall with one hand, batters your greedy hands away from him and jerks his fly open himself.

And then he picks you up, deftly pushes your knickers to the side, supporting you with one arm, and pushes into you with a long low growl. He keeps you suspended, your legs around his waist, one of his hands on your buttock, another pressed into the wall.

He puts his feet wider, for stability and greater momentum, and then he does that thing that drives you completely mental with lust every time. He tilts his head on a side and cracks his neck, as if before a laborious task, like an athlete before a jump. And then he pounds into you, your back hitting the wall, and you moan. And again, and again, and again…

You are pulling his hair, eyes closed, fully concentrated on the delicious massive cock thrusting into you, hitting your cervix, rubbing all the right spots. You are especially enjoying the string of dirty swearings he is snarling through his teeth. Sometimes when you actually listen to his mumbling, you catch some proprietary claims and even emotional jibber jabber there, something in the lines "only mine" and "my babe" in there. But right now you are more concerned with your impending orgasm.

And it is here. Boom! You cry out, clawing on the back of his head and neck. And then suddenly he sharply stops and starts gently rocking into you. Wow, that's new... You guess he is not that far gone as you thought. But at the moment all you can do is gratefully mewl and ride the wave. No other guy has ever made you come that hard! And it's not the size, although it is mental and how does it even fit? It is the overall determination to shag your brains out on everyday basis.

You recover slightly and open your eyes. The burning blue ones in front of you are surprisingly tender, and he presses a passionate kiss to your lips. And then gently rocks into you, and again, and again... And it's so new, so unusual, and so not you two, that you feel tears coming. And then he mumbles something into your lips. It sounds suspiciously like "I love you", and you sob. And come the second time. And he follows.

He is leaning into the wall, you are pressed between him and the bricks, your legs still around his hips, your arms wrapped around his neck. He is breathing heavily, his hot exhales tickling your neck. "What were we fighting about?" You ask absent-mindedly into the blue sky.

"That scouser was staring at you, and you smiled to him." You scratch him behind ear. "Plonker! You are so thick. I was smiling to the hasher, wanted to get our order faster." He chuckles into your neck and murmurs, "And now we didn't get any food..." "We can still go back, I'm sure your mates looked after your grub."

He carefully lowers you on the ground, and you sway. You shimmy your hips and fix your clothes. "Sod with the food, can we go home? I want a bath. I am sore and sticky." He leans in and gives you a tender kiss. "Whatever you want, love."


	23. Arrival

**A/N: For ****RagdollPrincess****. I know how much you like Amrod. What can I say? I really tried! :P**

**Modest Mussorgsky, "The Pictures from the Exhibition: Old Castle"**

Please, please, let it be an old chatty lady! With silver curls and a bunch of photos of her children and grandchildren, and her poodle, and her flowers in the garden. You are walking through the aisle, looking for your seat, and pray to all possible deities that it is not a middle-aged businessman who will be reading his newspaper all through the flight and never look at you for a second. You really need it to be a chatty old lady.

It is not. It is one of the most attractive men you have ever seen in your life. Bugger. He is exactly your type, maybe lacking a bit in width, but all together right to the point. Dark wavy hair, floppy, thick and healthily shiny, strong jawline, striking cheekbones, dark shadow on the clean shaven cheeks. Wide shoulders, and the neck that is just asking to be licked. Seriously, the first thought you have when looking at him is giving him a lovebite. Right there, on that tendon… And another one, on the collarbone. He looks at you and smiles. Bollocks.

You smile back, "Hi, that's me, 27B." He stretches his hand to you, "August." It is May. "Pardon?" "My name. My friends call me Auggie. You can too, we will be stuck with each other for four hours." That is a hell of a voice we are having here, Auggie. Fruity, smoky, with a slight hint of Southern American accent. Texas probably.

"Wren, nice to meet you." He has amazingly sexy hands. Large, very long fingers, both strong and elegant. The sleeves of his grey cardie are rolled up, and you can see slender wrists and muscular forearms. You haven't had sex in thirteen months. You hope it doesn't show.

You buckle in and exhale sharply. Bugger, an old lady would be still better. He might be distracting, fresh masculine perfume and heat radiating from his body, but damn, you are still scared shiteless. Bugger, bugger,bugger… You don't realize, you say it outloud.

"Not a fan of planes?" His voice is like maple syrup that you got completely addicted to. There is this one brand… Good, think about pancakes, don't think about burning cartilage of a plane. Fuck. "A bit." The knuckles of your hands are white, fingernails dug into the armrests. One thing is nice, there is no one on your left. You can claw at two armrests at the same time.

"Do you want my hand?" You screw your eyes at it. Damn, it is so tempting. "I wouldn't want to draw blood." He chuckles. "I'll survive." Sod it. You tentatively move your fingers closer, and his hand envelops yours. It looks tiny in his long fingers.

"So what is it you do, Wren?" The eyes are like chocolate truffles, dark, inviting, laughing, oh poop. Everything about him is warm, coffee, chocolate, chestnut and sex in front of a fire place… What the fuck was that thought? "I am a prof at uni. Medieval European literature." He hums. "I was doing my PhD in Carlton and now on my way back home to Calgary. You?" "Oil. I am an engineer." That explains Texan accent.

"Are you actually from the Lone Star State, or is the accent fake?" He laughs. That is a nice, open laugh, eyes twinkling and white teeth. "I am. But it's sort of fading here," he smirks and drawls in an exaggerated nasal voice, "But don't get all choked up, you looker, I sure'nuff still have it in me." You laugh, and he presses your fingers in his.

The plane jerks, and you dig nails into his palm. "Breathe, Wren, it is just like a car, but with wings." "That's what worries me." "Tell me about your accent, Wren, you sound British to me. Also an alien?" You bite into your bottom lip and shake your head. "Did my Bachelor in Leeds, Master's in Leicester, brought it from there." And some other things. A six foot four hottie with icy blue eyes, for example. The plane starts gaining speed and shaking. "Bollocks, bloody bollocks..." He chuckles, "I rest my case. You do sound British."

You are, as they say, losing it. Your breathing speeds up, and you see weird black spots in front of your eyes. It feels like the plane is going to fall apart right now, and you squeeze your eyes. "Common, Wren, talk to me. What is for you in Calgary? Family, friends? You are going to be there in a few hours, safe and unscathered, what is waiting for you there?"

You take a deeper breath. Sex, a lot of sex, wild, rough, against a wall sex. Think about it, concentrate Wren. Or divorce papers, may be, divorce papers. One out of two, with equal probability.

"I sort of have a husband there." "Sort of?" You peek, his eyebrows are hiked up, amused smile on his lips. These are very, very sexy. Full lower lips, the lines are strong, willful, and you breathe easier. "Well, we sort of separated, I haven't seen him for a year. But it's still sort of there..."

The wheels of the plane leave the ground, and you squeak. "OK, Wren, tell me about your husband, what's his name?" "John, his name is John. He is a lawyer." "Criminal law?' "Divorce lawyer." The irony really doesn't elude you. "Then you are in a pickle, Wren. If anything, he'll sue the hell out of you. Say goodbye to your nice shoes." You chuckle, "He won't look that good in them."

"So what happened, Wren? Did you cheat on him with some expert of Medieval armour?" "He didn't want me to leave for four years, he wanted a home and picketed fence and cats. I hate cats." "And a baby I gather?" Your eyes fly open, and you stare at him. He has very astute eyes. You nod.

"And now what?" "And now I'm done and going back. And we haven't talked for two months, and I emailed him my itinerary, and..." Why are you bloody telling him all that? The plane shakes, and you bite into your bottom lip. "And you don't know if he will be standing in the airport with a bouquet of roses..." "Or divorce papers," you nod, "but if anything it's probably not going to be roses, I love carnations." "Good to know, in case you do get divorced after all and agree to go out with me."

You look at him sideways. He is smiling. Smooth tosser. You let go off his hand, there are indeed marks from your nails in his palm, and you lean back in your seat. The flight attendant offers wine, and you even agree on some. You can't have more than a glass, but you sip, and he drinks his beer. You chat, and you think that he is one of the lightest, easiest people you have ever met in your life. Everything about him is bubbly, cheerful, sunny… Unlike in some other people we all know and... love. He is telling you a story of how his four older brothers once decided to pull a prank at him, tying a bucket of water over the door to his room, and how they dearly paid for it. You are laughing so loud that you have to press a palm to your mouth.

He is constantly moving, his wide dark eyebrows jump up and down, long fingered hands fly in the air, he probably has ADHD. His voice is expressive, low, velvet, and he is so openly attracted to you that you feel giddy. Two hours into the flight, from wine and the sheer stress of being in the metal trap of death you start nodding off.

You wake up when the captain announces the landing. You open your eyes, enveloped in his warmth and in the fresh nutty smell of his skin. Your cheek is pressed into the soft fabric of his cardie, and you see your hand on his lap, your fingers intertwined. He is looking out the window, small soft smile on his lips. You start moving away and he turns to you, "Hey." "Hey," you feel blush spreading on your cheeks. The plane starts going down, your ears plug, and you gulp. And then it shakes. Really hard. Your eyes probably widen in panic, and you inhale to spurt a new string of terrified swearings. And then he dives in and presses his lips to yours.

He is intoxicating! Your head literally swims, your eyes close, and you shamelessly moan into his lips. It is really inconvenient to kiss over the armrest, and he jerks it up. The flight attendant goes by and turns to you to remind you two to buckle in. Your arms are already wrapped around his neck, his hands on your waist, and she just goes by chuckling.

He tastes like beer, he tastes like sunshine, he tastes like himself, warm and inviting. You push your hands into his hair, and the plane lands. Probably. You really aren't sure. You move away and open your eyes. His are smiling, and you are once again stunned by the warm dark brown. That is a dominant gene, his kids will inherit it. Bloody fuck, what was this thought?

He takes out his card from his wallet and hands it to you. "Give me a call if it is indeed divorce papers and not carnations. OK?" You nod. Everybody starts getting up and pulling out their carry-ons. He lets you out, you don't have any bags. He is fumbling with his messenger bag, and you touch his shoulder. "Bye, Auggie." He smiles, "Bye, Wren."

You walk through the corridor, and your heart is beating frantically. You take a big gulp of water from your bottle and momentarily miss the taste of his lips. And then you remember, and you stop. You close your eyes and concentrate. "Common, Wren, you can do it. Few more steps and you will have your answer." You start walking again, and here are the gates. You pull up the strap of your handbag and step out in the arrivals terminal.

He is standing in the middle of it. There are no flowers in his hands. They are pushed into his pockets, in the endlessly familiar gesture. A dark blue cashmere sweater on his broad shoulders, the collar of a white button-up, the dark beard, the blue eyes… He notices you, and his lips twitch. You cannot actually see it, but you know his face so well, all the subtle little movements. And then he smiles. You can't see the small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, or the curved up lips, or the way his throat bobs...

You start running, and he steps ahead as well. Your body slams into his, and he envelops you in his arms. You press your face into the hard muscles, and he crushes you into him. "Wrennie, oh Wrennie..." He cups your face and you are staring into each other's eyes. "I love you…" His voice is raspy, and you feel tears pooling in your eyes. "God, Wrennie, I love you, I missed you so much..." He leans in and you are kissing, desperately and ardently. You wrap your arms around his neck, and you are home.

He is mumbling something into your lips, but he really doesn't have to say anything. You push your hands into his hair and pull him away from you. His eyes are wet too, and you smile, "I want a baby now, John. We can start as soon as we get home." He guffaws, through tears and shaky voice, and you are kissing again.

He pulls you closer, and you press your cheek to his sweater. And then you catch Auggie's chocolate eyes across the terminal. He is smiling, a friendly melancholic smile, and then slightly waves with his large hand. You wave back, and John slightly lets you go and turns around. "Who is it?" His question is absent-minded, he is busy stroking your cheekbones with his thumbs. "We sat together on the plane, an oil engineer," John leans in and kisses you behind the ear. He hums nonchalantly and then murmurs, "Let's go home, Wren."


	24. Get the Girl

**A/N: For ****RagdollPrincess,**** and for myself to be honest. It is Amrod/Auggie centered. If you can't stand to see Wren with anyone but Thorin, ignore this one! We felt our brown-eyed hunk needs to get the girl at least once.**

"_**Are You Gonna Be My Girl" by Jet**_

_Your hand lies in his large palm, his long fingers envelop it, and his other hand is on your waist. The first step backwards, and his body is close. You feel the heat emanating from it, and you sigh… His chocolate eyes are warm and inviting, and you smile to him…_

You stride into a lift, posture and the set of your head confident and proud. Three pairs of male eyes are on you, and you turn facing the closing doors. The conversation between them stopped, you can feel their eyes on you. Let's face it, you make yourself randy in this suit. Extra narrow pencil skirt, asymmetrical collar on the jacket, impeccable creamy colour, your copper curl in a strict do, smart specs, who wouldn't want to score this? The killer heels are exceptionally good today, their red soils a Siren's call.

The door opens and another bloke comes in. He is so tall that you are staring at his skinny tie. You lift your eyes and realize he is the reason you are in this hotel. You smile to him, "Mister Anderson, I am Wren Leary." His dark brown eyes fall on you, and he gives you a surprisingly genuine smile. "Miss Leary, pleasure," he shakes your hand.

The meeting is held on the last storey of the building, and you travel up. You are calm and collected, quickly appraising him, obviously without him noticing. My oh my, he is magnificent! The shoulder and waist ratio is mental, a perfect triangle. Extra long legs, and the size of shoes gives all sorts of thoughts. The saying is an obvious boggus, but a girl can hope. Impeccable white button-up, a funny Grandpa cardigan over it, narrow trousers, and, Lord Almighty, these buttocks will be visiting you in your dreams very frequently now.

He slightly turns to you and look at you askew. "How are finding New york, Miss Leary?" "Like a very dusty London." He smiles wider. "Not a big fan of it myself, Miss Leary. Grew up at the South." You push the fantasy involving him in a cowboy hat at the back of your mind. You do not exorcise it though, just store it for later. "But what business demands, business gets."

He owns an immensely successful IT company, which allows him wear such clothes to a business meetings and attracts the vultures such as your firm to try to lure him into a merger. He is resisting, and your boss decided it is time to try a new approach. That would be you. You are a highly professional merger lawyer, and yet you find yourself suddenly daydreaming of a client. Not good. Also, never happened before. You are very good in compartmentalizing. But the fresh nutty smell of his skin is surprisingly distracting.

The doors open, and you walk out. There is a rotating restaurant under the roof of this building, and you clench your jaws. You are not a big fan of heights. He glances at you, and you two approach the table. There are five more lawyers at the table, and everybody shakes hands. The seat they left for you is facing the window and is nauseatingly close to the glass. You take a careful breath in. A waiter comes to move a chair for you, but the client doesn't sit down.

"Can we actually get another table? I hate heights." He gives a natural apologetic smile, and everyone starts shuffling and moving their chairs. You are moved to the wall, and you breath out. Everyone starts taking their places anew, and you catch his eyes. Suddenly he winks to you and smiles. Bloody hell, he did it for you!

The brunch is predictably fruitless. Except you get to enjoy excellent jamon and their Cornish crab baby leaf salad. He is drinking beer, and the way his throat moves spurs your imagination in a very, very naughty direction. But again, you do not shag your clients. Ever. Completely unacceptable. His long fingers fiddle with a stem from a cherry, while one of your colleagues is droning at the background. These are sexy hands, slender strong wrists, muscular forearms. If he happens to know what to do with these fingers, it can be an exceptionally good trip to New York. Bad, bad, Wren, get this thought out of your mind!

The brunch ends, and he gets up first. Everyone starts noisily moving. He stretches his hand to you, "Miss Leary, pleasure to meet you, pity I couldn't give you what you wanted." You smile. "Gentlemen," he bids his goodbyes and leaves. There is half an hour of enraged rapport after that, which you tolerate stoically. It was a lost case from the start. He has too much integrity and too little concern for money to agree to their offer.

Your boss insists on another meeting. This time it is a different posh restaurant, just the two of you, this time the brunch is al fresco, and the day is warmer. He is wearing a button-up with a waistcoat, and the sleeves are rolled up. You get to enjoy the view of his muscular chest and biceps, and you think your vibrator will have to work really hard tonight.

Since this is your last meeting and obviously there isn't much you can do to influence his decision, and also nothing can bugger up your reputation either, you opt for a teal wrap dress. Maybe you just want to catch couple of his looks at your arse. Just an innocent game before you catch your plane back home. You can't touch but you can just busk in how warm his laughing eyes are.

It starts with a Dachshund sticking its nose into your Birkin. You honestly don't understand what it's looking for in there. There is no food in it, hardly any organic material at all, but it is persistently hunting it. You are spinning trying to save the leather from its muzzle, and the leash wraps around you. The owner is one of those old ladies that look very nice but will bite your head off when miffed. You are trying to politely extricate yourself out of it, but it is to no avail. He rushes to help you, and you two are pretty much grinding in the middle of the posh patio. The lady is loudly expressing her contempt, while he is trying to catch the dog, and you are still trying to save your handbag.

And suddenly he starts laughing, and it is hearty, open mouthed laughter, his deep chocolate eyes hide behind thick dark lashes and his white teeth are gleaming. It is so sincere and cheerful that you join in. "Have you see _101_ _Dalmatians_?" He is panting from laughter. You chuckle and finally extricate yourself out of the trap. And then your heel catches on the cursed leash, and you fall into his arms.

You lift your face to him and see him smiling to you tenderly. You do not shag your clients, you do not shag your clients… Oh sod it all! You slide your hands on his chest and slightly dig your nail in the orgasmicly hard muscles there. He is looking down at you. "My place or yours?" Your voice is raspy, and you are only partially acting. He hikes up his brows but then bends down and presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is all wrong. It is passionate, affectionate, that is not a kiss to precede a one off thing. His hands cup your face, he is tender and experienced. A man like that will not only shag you but also will pull your soul out. And then you will have to pick yourself up from the bottom of despair and live somehow without him. Red alert! Red alert! Full retreat! You step back and tuck a runaway curl behind your ear.

"Sorry, that was inappropriate. Not something I should be asking a client," you emphasize the last word, "I withdraw the question." He smirks, "I am not your client. As of five minutes ago when I firmly refused the proposal from your firm. So we can absolutely freely have dinner tonight?"

You are being stupid. You are barmy, you feel like a muppet. What are you doing, Wren? What an actual bloody hell? He is in your hotel room, and you are kissing in front of the fire. You had a lovely dinner, and now you are botching up everything. You are in full scale panic attack internally. His fingers slide into your hair, his skillful lips move on yours, his tall mouthwatering body towering over you, and you are literally weak in your knees.

Alrighty, Wrennie, this is what we are going to do. We are going to indulge a bit more and then we are going to fake a headache and toss him out of our room. Because for the first time in your life it is not just your fanny demanding this sweet piece of arse. Every cell in your body is trembling, muscles ache, and your knickers are drenched. He is funny, charming, smart, candid, has lovely parents and you have a return ticket to London for tomorrow.

His hands slide on your shoulder and a strap of your dress falls off from one of them. He presses his lips to the muscle between your neck and shoulder, and you drop your head back. You feel his tongue swirl on your skin, and you grab handfuls of his hair. His fingers pick up the zipper on your dress, and you hear a quiet "zzzz". And then the pulps of his fingers brush down your spine. Boy, he knows what he is doing.

Somehow that makes you feel worse, not better. Should you not be glad? You wanted a great shag, and you got it. A nice small adventure on a business trip. You push him away and inhale. "I can't..." What the fuck Wren?! That has never happened before. "I am sorry, I..." Say you have headache, say it Wren! "I have an early flight tomorrow..." It is at six, but who cares?

His face is confused, but then he nods. "Sure, no worries," he turns away and picks up his jacket from the floor where it fell five minutes ago. He makes a few steps to the door, but then he stops and turns around, "If you don't mind me asking, what is stopping you?" He is earnest, confusion written all over his face. Words are your weapon, but for once you don't feel like you are at war. "I just don't want a one night stand with you. I mean, you are marvelous, August Anderson," he hikes up his brows in the already familiar gesture, "I don't want to miss you when I leave."

He is pondering it, "Then don't leave." You chuckle and turn away from him. "Sure, I'll give it a thought." You pick up a glass of water from the table but he is not getting any of that. He comes back to you and is looming over you. "I am serious. Stay in New York, I'm sure they are dying to have you here." You smile over the rim of your glass. "I have a life in London, Mister Anderson." "And what does it consist of?" He pulls the glass out of your hands, and his dark eyes are focused on you. It is an electrifying experience. You suddenly remember that besides a computer genius he is also a ruthless businessman. "An apartment, you can get one here, no pets obviously, I doubt there is even a plant in there. Family and friends?" You shake your head. He is intoxicating. "I thought so. Lover? Boyfriend?" You shake your head again. He throws the jacket aside again and pulls you in. "Stay with me, Wren, and maybe New York will be a little bit more tolerable for both of us."

You just can't believe it! Does he really think he would be enough?.. He catches your mouth, and you think he might be onto something. The long fingers slide in the open back of your dress and he pushes it off you. Without taking his lips off you, he divests you of it, picks you up and carries you to bedroom bridal style. You are complacent, you are gathering information. He is putting you down and stretched on the bed near you. And then proceeds to caress every inch of your skin. He is tender, passionate and playful. He kisses, licks, nips, and even draws some patterns on it with the tips of his sensitive fingers. The tip of his long nose tickles your stomach, and you giggle.

And then you sharply push him and roll over him. He chuckles. You straddle him and straighten up your shoulders. "You are a bit of a wolf, aren't you? A manwhore is the word you habitually use in these lands, I believe." He is giving you a radiant smile and then gasps in fake horror. "Oh no! Don't tell me you are virgin!" You laugh. His tie flies off, and the shirt follows.

He is beautiful. Even bronze skin, perfect long lean muscles, and that is the most gorgeous chest you have even seen in your life. There is a tattoo between his shoulder blades, as you soon find out. You two are rolling on the bed, the fight for dominance getting increasingly more obvious. At some point you flip him over and have a peek. It is a large bull's skull, as far as you can understand. One of those things they put on the front of a truck in cowboy films. You trace it with your fingers. "I was eighteen, and all my brothers got one." You press your lips to the warm skin.

Then you press your cheek to his back, and your hands slide on the buckle of the belt. You shake him out of his trousers and pants, and oh my! He is not exceptionally thick, but the length! You are a small bird, that will take some getting used to. Which is jolly good news!

He presses you into the sheets. "Gender equality," he is murmuring into your skin and pulls off your knickers. And then he dips his tongue into you, his large hands caressing your breasts. You shift your hips guiding him to the favourite spot. He is rubbing your nipples with his thumbs through the lace of the bra. And then the palms swiftly cup your buttocks, and he lifts your pelvis. You open up more, and he is very, very thorough. There is an interesting pattern in his ministrations, lick, lick, twirl, lick, lick, dip, twirl, dip… And then he suddenly covers your whole sex with his mouth and sucks. Your hips jump up. Unpredictability is the mother of thrill.

One long finger slides in you, and he rubs the back wall of your entrance. That elicits the first moan out of you, and you press down into his hand. He is deliciously attuned to your reactions, and he is sucking on your clit, gently massaging the wall between your vagina and arse, and you come with a scream. That was fast, most men require instructions!

He carefully pulls the finger out, but doesn't move. He is still spread between your legs, and you peek on the chestnut mop of curls. He is tenderly kissing the sensitive skin on your thigh, and swirls his tongue on the hollow between your sex and the hip. You giggle, it tickles.

You sigh and grab his ears. The orgasm is still buzzing between your legs. "Shall we proceed?" He smirks, "No, I want another go." "What?" He presses his thumb into your clit, and you squeak. He is gentle but determined. His tongue dips into you, and you are moaning loudly. His hands are on your hips, and circular movements of his thumbs add an interesting dimension into the experience. You are panting, but with the second one you need just a bit more stimulation. You open your mouth to say so, when he tilts his head and pulls your lips into his mouth. You feel his teeth gently nipping, and you come the second time. It takes much longer to come down from this one.

He wipes his face with his palm, and you beckon his with your finger. You are so in love with his brilliant white toothed smile. He stretches near you on the bed, and you turn and press your lips to his. It is unhurried and passionate, and you feel like an icecream in sunlight. All sweet and liquid. He tries to roll over you, but you press a foot into the sheets and resist. You want on top, he is obviously not having any of it.

His hands slide on your waist, and he flips you on your stomach. That works too. He is kissing your back and gives you a long lick between your shoulder blades. The mouth moves lower, he kisses your right buttock, and then you hear him chuckle. "I was fifteen, and I thought Jonny Greenwood was fit." "At least you are not into Thom Yorke. But I can see you have a type." You are laughing, and then his hot length presses into your buttocks.

"Protection?" He hums and takes your hand. He puts it on his cock, and you feel the ridge of a condom on it. How in the name of all deities? And when?! He is laughing and out of sheer vengeance, and because this low throaty rumble does some magical things to you, you pick up your pelvis and swiftly push yourself onto him. He chokes and groans.

"Damn it, Wren, you are so hot..." The accent is stronger, the Southern drawl more obvious, and it is so bloody sexy. He is supporting himself on straight arms, and experimentally rolls his hips. You push back, he pins you down. And then he start moving slowly, accentuated deep thrusts, and you are bending backwards, trying to get him deeper. One of his hands lies on your hip and squeezes it. "You just can't pass the reigns, can you?" He is raspy.

You push back and give him your best impersonation of a stretching cat. Your arms are straight in from of your on the sheets, nails clawing the pillow. "God, you are sexy..." He pushes more roughly, and you purr. And then you get up on all four and shove your pelvis back. "Well, since you just can't calm down…" He straightens up, kneeling behind you, and plunges his cock into you. Oh yes, that's the spot!

You two set a nice rhythm, and you are whining. It is fucking brilliant! Everything about it is perfect, he is perfect. Sweet, hot thrill is running through your veins and nerves, every cell in you is singing, and you bend your back more. One of his hand slides on your back, and you can feel the scorching palm and splayed fingers on your tingling skin. "God, I am so not letting you go..." Your eyes are closed, and you gasp, "I am not going anywhere..."

He is speeding up, and soon you can feel he is close. 'Come, Wren, I need you to come..." You are half-conscious by now, your head spinning, but you somehow manage to moan, "I can't, not like this..." He suddenly bends down, his arms on your sides, hands on yours, and you feel his lips on the sensitive skin behind your ear. "Tell me how…" "I need to be on top, that's the only way..."

"I bet, I can do better..." He pulls out of you, and you gasp. His large hands lie on you, and he pushes you on the bed on your back. He spreads your legs and thrusts into you. You arch your back and moan. Orgasm or not, he feels exceptionally good inside you. He is supporting himself on his elbows, his forearms under your shoulders, and his warmth, his smell, his body are all around you. You are intertwined, and you feel enveloped in him. He catches your mouth and starts moving.

It feels so fucking good, but you feel a bit bad for him. Many tried, no one succeeded. If they add some stimulation of the clit, it just feels annoying. If you try yourself, you are distracted. He is not moving his hands though, they are still on the sides of your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones and temples. He is kissing you, and you decide to just go with it. You start reciprocating, your lips and tongue answering him, and strangely enough you feel some pressure building in your lower stomach. And then it hits you! You gasp and twist your mouth from under him. "Oh my god, oh my fucking god, oh my god..."

It is big, hot, like a tsunami, like a forest fire, like a… You are making loud panting and moaning noises at the same time, you also might be chanting his name… That's what everyone is talking about! That is a fucking bliss and rapture! You don't even have any energy left to grind into him, everything is white and hot, the world has faded, and all you can perceive is the perfect orgasm roaming through your body.

You open your eyes and look at him. He looks exceptionally smug but you don't fucking care. You press your lips to his, you are so fucking in love with him right now! He is kissing you, and you smile into his lips. He lifts a brow. "Care to aim for another one?" You feel his thumb moving towards your clit, and you bite his lip. "Leave my fanny alone, she is unconscious!" He laughs. And then your wrap your legs around his narrow hips tighter and push your pelvis up. "Come for me, Auggie… Come for me, baby," you are murmuring, and he starts moving.

You are so sensitive that you can't help but cry out with each of his thrusts. He is obviously gentle, but soon his control is slipping and he lift his upper body over you. His eyes are shut, and he looks so beautiful! At the very last moment the chocolate eyes fly open, and he looks at you. There is a new smile on his lips, you haven't seen this one yet, and then he throatily moan and comes. His head drops down, he presses his forehead to yours, and his hips roll into you several more times. You can actually feel his cum hitting the condom inside, and his cock is jerking in you. You are rubbing his shoulders and kiss his temple. You feel him press his lips to your neck, and he is murmuring something. It is something beautiful and sincere, and you understand with all possible clarity in the world that you are so not taking that plane tomorrow.

_You move to the rhythm. "I love this song..." He smiles. "That is why we chose it. Isn't it the whole point?" You roll your eyes. "I mean I am loving it right now. Koko knows what she is doing!" He chuckles. "Though the lyrics are not very fitting don't you think? _I'm a-mixed up about you_?" "But you are mixed up about me, aren't you Mister Anderson?" "Well, yes I am, Missus Anderson," he drawls with an exaggerated accent, and pushes you away on his stretched arm and then swirls you. Your body is light and bubbling with the familiar thrill he gives you, and then you are pulled back into him. He dips you backwards, and the wedding guests cheer. You are laughing into his happy eyes and shimmy your shoulders. "Oh I am so having you for dessert tonight, Mister Anderson!" He straightens up and catches your mouth. The music goes on but you two don't care. His hands slide on the lace on your back, and you shiver. "And any other day too, please, Missus Anderson." _


	25. Drunk, Not in Love

**A/N: Thank you, ****Neewa****, for the prompts!**

**A/N#2: This one will have two parts (at least:P), since ****Neewa**** was so generous with her prompts :) The first one is "seeing only glimpses of John or Wren" (I don't know why my brain went into this direction instead of the initial "see each other on the fire escape during a blackout" one :D); and the second one will be "getting hot in a cold ski lodge" since it turned out RA is a big fan of skiing.**

"_Drunk in Love" by Beyonce_

You stumble, and everything swirls around. Wow, colours, circles and birdies… "Wren, Wren, common, girl, couple more steps," Thea sounds concerned, you feel you should reassure her, but your tongue feels funny…

"What's wrong with her?" Someone's voice suddenly drums into your brain, and you feel like snarkily answer that there is nothing wrong with you, and they should have a good look at themselves, but again, none of your muscles seems to be doing what you tell them… Thea picks you up more firmly and drags you towards the exit from the cottage. She puts you on a bench outside and kneels in front you. Her gorgeous hazel eyes swim out of the haze. You smile to her, she is so beautiful… "I love you, Thea, did you know?... Like really love you, almost for real… Like a body..." She chuckles.

"Wrennie, how are you?" The party inside the cottage is in full swing, and you suddenly feel sad that you are preventing her from enjoying it. Giant drunk tears fill your eyes, "I'm so sorry, Thea… I am ruining your night..." "Hey, hey, not your fault some wankers just don't understand what "no" means..." Your lips tremble, and you are staring into the black sky. Oh, pretty stars...

Suddenly you feel the presence of another person, but you can't lower your eyes. Somehow it feels like they rolled back into your head, and now it is too heavy to move. "Are you alright, Miss? Does your friend need help?" The voice is deep and pleasant, even through a high pitch ringing in your ears. You wave your hand in front of your face trying to clear out the sparkly purple mist in your eyes. And then you look at the bloke in front of you askew. It is too dark, you can only see a silhouette. Wow, that is a huge body! And the mane of hair makes him look even bigger. Look at those arms, massive… There is something regal and majestic in the posture... Those palms, one hand in a fist, like a sledgehammer… "Hammer… Anvil..." You sound funny and really didn't mean to say it. There is something really wrong with verbal centers of your brain in the moment.

"We are fine, ta. Some tosser threw a shot in her fizzy drink, and she doesn't drink," Thea's words reach your dazed brain. You sniff in indignation. What kind of a twat would do that to a girl? And then you realize it is your fizzy drink she is talking about. Right… It's true, you can't drink…

Thea chats up the shadow bloke for a bit more, and you think you feel a bit worse. "Thea…" She hurriedly scoots in front of you. "I think I need to go to the loo..." You really would prefer to vomit there, somehow you really don't want to manky up the white snow. Pretty snow, fluffy...

"Certainly, love, let's try to reach our lodge," she tries to lift you, but your whole body is made of Angel Delight. You giggle and realize that the reason the world looks so funny is that you are crossed-eyed. You shake your head, clearly imagining how your eyes bob in your noggin like snooker balls.

"Do you want me to help?" The shadow bloke offers gallantly. "Wren, can he help?" Right, that's your body he would have to manhandle. "Help yourself," you wave your hand in the air with flare. Or maybe you look like an inflatable man in front of a car wash. He steps closer, but your vision hasn't been fully back. All you can see is the outline of his broad shoulders and his right ear. It is a very sexy ear.

His face is suddenly very close and your vision gets assaulted by the bright blue of his eyes. You stretch your hand and touch presumingly his nose."Pretty..." He chuckles. "You are quite a stunner yourself." You puff air in indignation. "Don't flatter yourself, mister. The colour!.. 007 BA 7!" "James Bond?" Who is bladdered here? He isn't making any sense.

He picks you up in his arms, and it feels so good! He is hard, warm, and smells very nice. The spicy manly fragrance makes your mouth water. You are so comfortable too. "What about James Bond?" He did say something about James Bond, didn't he? You are trying to concentrate, but now all your have in your narrow circle of vision is his ear and temple. You touch a silver strand with the tip of your fingers. The cerulean eyes screw sideways, and he chuckles again.

"You said 007," he has an amazing voice, it's like syrup, or molasses, or that chocolate sauce they make for crepes in that bistro… "I am hungry," you whine and hide your face into his neck. And then you nuzzle his skin and press your lips to it. You can't help it, he is like the warm caramel sauce that is even better than the chocolate sauce.

He chuckles again, "Is she always like that when squiffy?" You giggle. Squiffy!.. Thea is apparently walking along, you can't really see her, you are busy studying his ear. "She is intolerant, no one has ever seen her drunk."

Suddenly you start crying loudly, large hot tears run down your face, and some probably get under the collar of his jumper as well. You wrap your arms around his neck and sob. "Oh Wrennie, what is it?" He stops, and Thea's face comes out of the haze again. "Wrennie? What is it, love?" "He said I was a frigid bitch… I was already feeling funny but he was still disgusting..." You wipe your nose with your sleeve, you normally don't do it... But you can't remember how they call the thing you wipe your nose with…

"Oh Wrennie, forget the tosser! Nothing to think about in there!" You turn and ask the ear in front of you, "Am I frigid?" You stroke it with the tip of your finger. It is a very nice ear, it will not hurt your feelings. Suddenly it disappears from your view, and there is a pair of blue eyes instead. Right, ears are attached to heads, and eyes are usually there too. These eyes are lovely, there is a smile dancing in them. Or maybe you are just drunk.

"I have known you for about five minutes, but I'll tell you, you are definitely not frigid. I have hard time keeping my libido in check from all your ministrations." "Ministry what?" You think of David Cameron and wrinkle your nose. "You are kissing my neck," he is chuckling again, "It is very arousing." "I like it," you slide the pulp of your index finger up and down a tendon on it, "It is nice, caramel and stuff." You press your lips there again. Yep, definitely tastes great.

"Alright, Wrennie, leave the bloke be," Thea is chuckling, "Honestly, she is usually very decent, uptight I would say, it's just the booze." "No offense taken, it is rather flattering." You stop listening, you are utterly distracted since you found the hollow spot between his collar bones. You stroke it with your fingers and then slide them under the collar. Mmm, the chest hair... Rough, and the muscles are so warm... His hands on you tighten. "Slow down, love," his voice sounds slightly different, "Buy me dinner first." You like this new voice, it makes you feel funny in your lower stomach. You kiss his neck again and then suck a bit on the delicious skin there. "Sure, we can have some crepes. You will be the sauce..."

And then you black out. In the unpleasant darkness that is the next fourteen hours you see weird distorted shapes of plates with dessert, your senses are flooded with masculine taste and delicious smell of scorching skin. You open your eyes and immediately regret this action. The world is ugly, dreary, the burgundy colour of the curtains is disgusting, and you moan.

You are fighting nausea for a few minutes and then still run to the bathroom. Your stomach painfully empty, you come out and drain a glass of water that Thea obviously left for you. There is a note, and it takes a while to read it. You realize you don't have your glasses, and you pretty much have to press the paper into your nose. _"Left to get groceries. Call me if anything. You caught a big fish yesterday. He already called. Attagirl! T." _There is an unfamiliar phone number written underneath. That is not Thea's handwriting. What an actual hell is that? And then you remember.


	26. Not Drunk, Not in Love

**A/N: There will be part three obviously :D The first one was "Drunk, Not in Love", this one is "Not Drunk, Not in Love", guess what the third one will be! :D**

Everything is bloody fuzzy, and you can't concentrate. It feels like your mind is scratching at some hard surface, but you can't seem to actually grasp what is happening… It is like you are trying to get a better look of the landscape rushing by a car window, your nose pressed to it… And then you realize your nose is actually uncomfortably squished. You decide to rub it, and you suddenly can't move your arm. You jerk it again and hear a strict voice, "Try not to move, Mister Thorington. You have sustained rather serious injuries." Right, that explains the whiteness around, you are in a hospital.

You turn your head and try to focus on what you see. The middle age bloke in a white coat is probably a doctor, there is a woman with short hair too. You blink several times. You can't remember what happened.

"What?..." Your voice doesn't comply, you sound very raspy. "You were hit by an inexperienced snowboarder, he was on a wrong track." Right… There was a kid, bright red jacket… "You have a broken leg, and a broken arm, bruises on your face..." Oh, that explains the funny feeling in your nose, there is plaster on its bridge. "There is a mild concussion, but it really could have been much worse. You are a lucky man, Mr. Thorington." Somehow you don't feel like one at the moment. "We contacted your sister, is there anyone else we need to inform of your accident?" "No," you shake your head, and everything swims. "You should get some sleep, Mr. Thorington, we gave you something for the pain. You might feel a bit disoriented." He calls this a bit disoriented? You momentarily think of skank weed in uni. Everything has that same weird tinge of green to it right now…

You wake up presumingly the next day. They give you another IV, and the overall fuzziness prevails. Apparently, the leg has been damaged severely, but you honestly think you would take pain over this greenish mist that is floating before your eyes.

She is a vision in blue, a bunch of white carnations in her hands. The smile is shy, and her cheeks are burning. Her eyes are of that weird brownish greenish colour you remember from the time when her head was lying on your shoulder, her small hand pressed to your collar bones. You smile. Well, this hallucination is much better that the weird shapes and swirls you have been enjoying for the past half an hour.

"Hey," the voice is as nice as you remember it. She puts the flowers in a vase on a table and is standing in front of your bed. You try to focus, little fidgety movements of her slender fingers utterly distracting. "I am Wren, I don't know if you remember me..." Funny, your imagination gave her an exotic name. "You are the drunk girl..." Oh that didn't come out nice, even a hallucination won't like this…

She bites her bottom lip. "Yes, it is me. I just thought that you probably don't have anyone to visit you… I feel so stupid..." She is chewing on her bottom lips and starts backtracking to the door, and you stretch your hand to her. "Please, don't go..." She tentatively takes your hand, and her fingers are warm and strong." "Sorry, they gave me these meds… I can't think straight…" She chuckles. It is throaty, and if anything in your body could move, something would definitely stir. "Well, then we are even." The corners of her lips are turned up. You remember her small hot mouth on your neck…

You pull her hand and make her sit on the edge of your bed. "You didn't call me..." You sound grouchy. You should be nicer to her, maybe she will stay for longer, you like her here. Somehow it feels less white here when you can look at her. The hair is astonishing, bouncy curls sticking out, and you let go of her hand for a moment. You press your palm into the halo and then let go. The orange springs predictably bounce back into their initialy shape. She giggles.

"You are completely narked, aren't you?" She picks up your hand herself, and you think that she is a very kind hallucination. When you are out of here, you will call the real her. Maybe she is at least a bit that wonderful. The thumbs of both her hands are rubbing your knuckles.

"The doctors told me you got hurt so much because you chose to fall off the edge of the slope instead of hitting other people..." You do not remember it, but since it makes her smile, you nod. She has a very sexy mouth, but you haven't brushed your teeth for two days. Maybe you can convince her to kiss your cheek. Another fuzzy thought enters your brain.

"Am I scratchy?" "What?" "Do I have a beard?" She lifts her brows. It looks so cute that you pull your hand out and touch the tip of her nose with your finger. She suddenly shifts and presses her lips to it. "You are definitely a hallucination..." You might be pronouncing about a half of letters in this word wrong.

"And you are bladdered," she is smiling, "And yes, you have a very nice beard. I wonder if you will remember this tomorrow..." "I will remember you… I remember how you pushed your hand down my collar… I have a fetish, you know?" Why are you telling her this? Even hallucinations don't discuss such thing on their first visit.

But she moves closer, "Oh really? What kind of fetish?" You put your palm on your collar bones. "It' sensitive here, and the throat… Makes me randy..." She tentatively stretches her hand but then jerks it back. You might be slightly whining in disappointment. She giggles again. "I am not going to sexually assault you while you are half conscious in a hospital bed..." "I don't mind."

Really, you don't. You remember her little fingers clawing at your chest, while she was sucking at your throat. You still can't believe the amount of self-control you demonstrated that night. "Why didn't you call me?.." You sound whiny, "I thought you liked me… You said something about James Bond..."

She chuckles. "I said 007 BA 7, it is the hex code for cerulean colour. Your eye colour. I am a graphic designer…" "Oh," you can imagine that you look pathetically bummed, "so I do not remind you of Roger Moore?" You cock one brow. She giggles again, and then you feel her fingers lightly brush your temple. "Timothy Dalton maybe?.. He botched up the films, but I don't like blonds." You have to concentrate really hard to remember your haircolour. Good, more Pierce Brosnan than Daniel Craig.

"I was going to call you, but I chickened out," she is speaking softly, her fingers still brushing your hair. "And then Thea told me she heard of your accident." "Is Thea the other one? The busty one..." The hallucination Wren bites her lip again. "Yeah, the cute brunette." You are staring at her. Is she serious?

"You are very hot." She jerks her hand away from your temple. "Sorry, usually my hands are cold, sorry..." "I mean sex…" You try to shake your thoughts back in place, they are clanking in your head, "I mean sexy..." The slanted eyes are giant. You run the finger down the narrow elegant bridge of her nose. "I want to kiss your freckles..."

You screw your eyes. The IV is almost done, meaning you have just a few minutes before you are out. You turn back to her. She is sitting with her mouth slightly open, probably still digesting your last phrase. Oops, might have been a bit straightforward… Is it the expression? Or is it something about straight ahead? Everything is increasingly blurred, and you are grasping for the remnants of consciousness. "Wren..."

She picks up your hand again. God, it feels nice, she feels nice… "Will you come back? I mean I know hallucinations can't choose themselves… But can you try to come back tomorrow? " She lets go of your hand and cups your face.

Through the strange cloud of the meds you feel her little fingers gently stroke your face and then slightly scratch the beard. Maybe you have a new fetish now. That is so bloody brilliant! You close your eyes from the sheer bliss and then sharply make them open in panic. You are not ready to sleep yet.

She presses her lips to your cheek and murmurs into your ear, "I'll come tomorrow. Get some sleep." Your lids are heavy, and you let your eyes close. You feel a couple more brushes of her gentle fingers on your face, and it is dark.


	27. Not Drunk, but Maybe in Love

**A/N: There will be part four as well :D Since I still didn't get to "getting hot in a cold lodge" part of ****Neewa****'s prompt :)**

You spend the rest of your vacations in the hospital bed. She comes every day. She is funny, sexy, blushes easily, and she is perfect. When she is leaving at the end of the fourth day, she leans in to kiss your cheek, and you slightly shift your head and catch her mouth. You have wisely brushed your teeth beforehand. Her brows hike up but then she closes her eyes, you know since you are peeking, and leans in more. Her hand in on the headboard, and she is a very good kisser. You put your healthy hand on the back of her head. You might be slightly obsessed with touching her extraordinary hair. She sighs into your mouth, and you feel her tongue caress your upper lip.

Before it got too randy, she straightens up. You notice smugly that she looks rather dazed. Her next sentence confirms your evaluation, "God, you are like brew… I think my head is spinning..." She smiles to you. But then her face grows serious. "We have only three days left till we have to go back to work. Me and Thea, we have this project, it is a site for those healthy food shops…" She is mumbling. You have noticed that habit of hers.

"They won't release me for another week at least," you tread carefully. She nods. "But when I'm out, someone will have to take care of me. This," you point your eyes at your leg, "Will stay for another five weeks at least." "Oh, so you just need a nurse," she looks at you mischievously. "Do you happen to have the uniform?" You might be smiling a bit too widely. "I'll see what I can do."

Your sister comes and drives you to the airport. All through the flight you are thinking about the slightly too heated snogging that served as your goodbye with Wren. Her hand slid on your chest, and then under the tee, and you gasped. She pulled it out and apologised. It made you laugh, she seems to be treating your kink as a disability and be very careful, in her words, "not to make you uncomfortable". She is so fit that you are uncomfortable in your pants most of the time. You chatted on the phone couple times after she left, and she sent you an email with a photo of herself and her friend Thea pretending to be asleep on the tables in their office. Apparently, the project is an aggro.

Deadre helps you to get to your flat and spends the day. She organizes easy access to food and loo for you, puts clutches near your bed, and you finally rid yourself of her. You love her to shreds, but she fusses. She is so used to mothering two boys, that she forgets that unlike them you actually tend to take care of yourself and eat something besides Domino's. Your phone rings, and you hope it's Wren.

It is. "Welcome back," her voice is happy, but she sounds exhausted, "How was your flight?" "Fine, and I am home, all settled. My sister brought me chicken soup." "Awww, I was just going to offer… I mean I was going to ask if you had food… Not that I was going to invite myself…" Her adorable mumbling continues but you can't distinguish words anymore.

"Wren, would you like to come and visit me?" There is a bit of silence on the other end. Did you understand her wrong? "Can I come tomorrow? I look like shite, and we haven't slept last night with Thea, and there is still so much to..." She yawns loudly. "Sure, I'll email you the address. Come any time you want. I will probably just stay home tomorrow. No running errands and hitting the gym." She chuckles. "It is actually rather convenient. I always know where you are… I mean not that I would stalk you or something…" You laugh. "Alrighty, I'll just stop talking and will go and fall asleep in the copier room. Again..." You chuckle. "Bye, Wren." "Bye, John," she yawns again and hangs up.

She comes over at five and by then you are barmy with boredom. You were never too big on staying home before. Telly drives you mad, you have read both books your sister left you and ordered some more online. And you might have made some other impulsive purchases on Amazon. You are not used to being caged.

She knocks and carefully opens the door. You are propped in the pillows on a sofa in the living room. There is a white box in her hands. The intoxicating smell of some pastry hits your nose, and you lick your lips. But first things first… She puts it on the table and approaches you. You so much love her shy blush. "Hi," she steps closer, and you grab her hand and pull her on your lap. She is so small that she curls into you and her tiny feet don't reach the floor. "Hi," you catch her lips and can finally enjoy her taste without expecting a nurse to walk on you two. Again...

She is stroking the back of your neck, and you feel her deft little fingers pulling the hair tie out. And then she freezes. She has this wonderful tendency of doing something before thinking, and then getting scared of her own boldness and backing up. You press her tighter into yourself and nod. It feels funny, since you are simultaneously kissing her, but she gets the message.

"I am sorry, I just really like it… So silky..." She is a bit breathy, since your lips are on her neck. She drops the head back a bit and pushes her fingers into your hair. Fingernails gently scratch your scalp, and that drives you mad! Maybe if she straddles you, you can find some nice position…

She pushes away from you a bit and presses her forehead to yours. "Should we…" She sounds choked and clears her throat. "Should we be doing this? I mean you are hurt..." Apparently that's the only thing that is stopping her. Bless. You dive in and kiss her jaw. "It's just the leg and the arm now…" She moans. You guess you are not the only one in here who likes their neck touched. And kissed. And licked. Oh, that one turns out the most productive. And kudos to her for keeping her voice down in the hospital, she is apparently very vocal.

She carefully shifts, and she is finally straddling you. You kiss the freckled nose. "You might have to do all the work though..." You lift your arm in a cast. She smirks. Oh, that one is new, quite predatory by the way. "You will repay me later." She pulls off her jumper and there is a lacy blue bra there. You so wish you had both hands now. But at least you can unclasp it with one. She is kissing you and then smiles into your lips. "You are suspiciously good at it." She slides the straps off and the bra theatrically flies across your living room. "I am in computer repairs, remember? Need the dextrosity." She lifts a sceptical brow, and then picks up the hem of your tee. It gets stuck on the cast on your arm, and you both are laughing.

She lowers her head and presses her lips to your throat. And then her hot little tongue slides down and swirls in the hollow between the collar bones. The pulps of her tiny fingers caress the skin there too, and you are losing your mind. Everything about her is wonderful, whatever she does is magnificent, but still this is the best… Her lips slide on your jaw, and she gently bites into the beard. Oh, maybe not, that feels fucking great too…

She pushes your track trousers down, together with the pants, and you groan. "Sorry, I thought we are already…" She is mumbling again, and you press your lips to hers. "Yes, yes, we are, please, hurry up..." She giggles and momentarily moves off you to take off her knickers. Bless the summer, bless the skirt, bless her preparedness. A condom is rolled over you, and you finally slide into her. Oh fuck… She is tight, and hot, and you think you are in love. You two are moving, well, mostly her, her hips rolling into you, and your palm is pressed into her shoulder blades. She breathes out adorable little panting sounds and then comes.

She presses her forehead to yours, and she is shaking. "I am sorry, it's just that I really wanted, and you are so big… I am so sorry, I can't move just yet..." You guffaw. Is she apologising for the best compliment you can get regarding your bedroom skills, which you are not demonstrating at the moment, but you are so shagging her into most satisfied bliss when you are out of the casts? Or is she apologizing for telling you she wanted you and that you are big? You are rubbing her back and pepper kisses on her face. "Take your time, I am perfectly comfortable right now." She moves her face away and looks you in the eyes.

"Comfort isn't quite the point of this, isn't it?" You smile to her. She starts moving again, her movement rougher and more determined this time, and you are growling. God, she is sexy! She drops her head back, and you catch a hard nipple in your mouth. She moans loudly and puts her hands on the back of the sofa behind you. It gives her better momentum and wider swing, and soon enough you are shattering in front of her. Mother of God, this woman…

You are sitting intertwined, and she is lazily drawing some patterns on your forearm with the tips of her fingers. "What's in the box?" She chuckles and straightens up. "Crepes, I stopped by the French bistro by the bridge." "Aaah, the famous crepes that you were going to consume with me as the sauce the very first night…" She blushes and then pecks your lips. "And I was right. You are absolutely delicious!"


	28. Take a Chance

**A/N: I am still sick and was watching "Mamma Mia!" tonight, bundled up in blankies :) It was supposed to have a sad ending, colds make me depressed, but damn, I am putty in Thorin's hands :) His large, hot hands, yum! :P**

"Take A Chance on Me" by ABBA

The heavy skirt of a white linen dress wraps around your calves, you are swirling, the sweet fragrant aroma of hibiscus in the black Egyptian night, stars twice as large as they are at home above your head, you drop your head back and stare at the velvet night sky of Cairo through the cuts in your mask. You could never understand the purpose of masquerades, people are so easily recognized by their bodies. You slip out of the hands of your partner, and in a dizzying twirl you switch to the next one. Hands clap above your heads, shoulders bump, and he encircles you in a unison with other dancers. You stretch your hand to him and smile to obviously the father of the bride. The mouth under grey moustache returns the expression, and you pat his shoulder. Another spin, and you bump into the groom. You shove his shoulder in the movement familiar from the school days, and he laughs, picks up your hand and swirls you. Another change of partners, and you shimmy your shoulders in front of his younger brother.

There is no point to hide the top half of anyone's face, the body will tell you who is dancing near. Your eyes fall on a tall figure lazily and gracefully moving three pairs to your right, and your heart clenches. What is the point of the glitter and features on a narrow piece of cardboard, if your body immediately reacts to the wide shoulders, narrow waist, massive arms, the proud regal posture and the mane of dark waves? The cold blue eyes gleam through the cuts in the mask, and the dancers switch again.

His arm encircles you, and the curved familiar lips twist in a smirk. His usual fragrance hits your nose, mixed with the intoxicating smell of his skin, and every cell in your body responses. The long strong fingers slide down your upper arms, and you press your palm into his chest. And then it slides lower, your nails raking his stomach, you lower yourself in front of him in a sensual move, arching your back, and your eyes lock.

He bends down, his arm wraps around your middle, and he straightens up, lifting you, your body virtually drooping over his arm, and his lips press into your neck. He twirls you in his arms, and you embrace his neck, holding on to him. His lips are by your ear. The voice is velvet and lust, "Would you like to leave?" You do not need to nod, he can see the answer in your eyes.

He is dragging you away from the dance floor, your hand in his hot palm, and then he pushes you into a wall. You are hardly concealed by the bushes, but your head is swimming, and the night is intoxicating. He hikes up your skirt, pulls you to him and up, your body opens up, the legs wrap around his waist. He pushes you thongs to the side and thrusts into you in a familiar forceful move. You moan throatily and pulls his hair, messing his ponytail. He is pounding into you, your back scraping to the white wall. He presses one palm into it, and he is growling into your neck.

"Come for me, kiddo," he knows exactly what he doing. He is sucking on the muscle between your neck and your shoulder, familiar and endlessly effective ploy, and then his white teeth nip on the already sensitive skin there. The angle is perfected through years, and you come with an obscene scream. He shutters a second later, synchronicity having always been your virtue.

He is breathing heavily, and you are sliding down the wall. You feel dizzy and broken, your knees tremble, and tears rise. You bite into your lip angrily. You turn away from him and fix your clothes. You hear the zipper of the fly. "It doesn't change anything..." Your voice is small and hollow. "You are still nothing but a wanker of my ex husband..."

You are calm now and turn around. His chin is lifted, and his lips are pressed together in a stern line. "Suit yourself." His voice is gruff and bitter. You turn around and start walking back to the hotel. He catches your upper arm, swirls you and presses you into his body. "Please, don't leave..." You try to push him away. "Please, please, Wrennie, please..."

He knows there are no promises to make, no apologies to give, nothing will work, but he is trying, he is begging, and something snaps. Tears burst out of your eyes, and you press your forehead into him, and nod. Hardly noticeable, but enough. He falls on his knees and presses his face into your stomach. His hands grab bunches of your dress, and he sobs. One more chance, he just needs one more chance.

You lift your face to the sky and take off your mask. He catches your hand holding it and presses his lips to the knuckles. The cardboard with glitter and feathers falls on the ground, and he is kissing your palm. There is no ring on the finger, and he kisses the phalanx. You run your other hand through his hair and sigh. You look down at him, and you smile to each other through tears. One more chance...


	29. Cloak and Dagger

**A/N: Alrighty, here is the deal, my lovelies. This one is just a spoof, a harlequin novel parody, but also, it is a test drive for that next idea of mine :P If I decide to write it, it will be all angsty and dramatic, but so far, have fun, my lovelies :) **

**Since ****Dopamine07**** asked me whether I would venture into a fic with another RA character I couldn't get this thought out of mind. Since she mentioned John Thornton (who wouldn't:), my barmy mind went into Hobbit/North&amp;South crossover mode, which is totally mental, I know :) So this happened :) Let me know what you think! Seriously though, I need your feedback on this one :) Should I go with the idea?**

**A/N#2: I am still doubtful about venturing into a period piece but Wren and Thorin are supposed to meet through time and space (thus the title of the series), and find each other again and again. But this fic is not that straight forward :P Ehehehe, I am giddy :)**

Mr. John Thorington was not looking forward to his breakfast that day. His brother, the only person with a shard of common sense in the house, was away, and John was to be the only victim of endless chatter of his sister and overbearing concern of his mother over his morning tea. Fortunately for him, the society gave both of them another topic for a conversation.

When he entered the dining room their voices were already ringing, and he winced. "He cannot possibly expect the society to accept her? Can you imagine this woman in Mrs. Chesley's sitting room?" His sister's mocking tone was venomous. "Deadre, darling, I am certain he would not dare bringing her there, not with her parentage." John joined them at the table and immediately hid behind his newspaper.

"John, we were hoping you would join us in this discussion," his mother's cold tone made him lower the paper. "I am certain I have very little to contribute into it." "It is about Lord Harligton's granddaughter. He is bringing her to the dinner at Mrs. Gobey's tonight." John inhaled slowly. He had no choice but to concede and listen to the prattling. He folded his newspaper and looked at them expectantly.

"Lord Harlington is bringing his granddaughter over to the formal dinner tonight, and we are concerned whether being seen in the company of such woman could influence Deadre's reputation." His sister was expecting a proposal from a rich manufacturer, and as little as his mother approved of the choice she was determined to protect the security of such matrimony.

"I am certain that a ward of such noble gentleman as Harlington is not a threat to your reputation, Dea." John really wished Frederick was here, he had a much better talent for managing the women. "But her mother ran away from home! With an Irishman!" His sister's blue eyes widened, and he almost groaned.

"Besides, John, she is known to be a bit of a… suffragette," his mother's calm face wavered, and John felt acute sympathy towards the young lady in question. She was not to enjoy the celebrations that evening. The society did not take well on liberal views, especially from a woman of questionable upbringing.

"Can you imagine Harlington's heirloom jewels on a neck of an Irish woman?" His sisters tone was triumphant, and John gave her a reproachful look. Whatever the poor child looked like, he predicted a lot of criticism of her appearance. And if the nature was not generous, he only hoped that Harlington had enough sense not to allow this woman wear the famous diamond necklace of his late wife.

The necklace was indeed on the neck of the aforementioned Miss Wren Leary, the daughter of a poor Irish painter and Harlington's daughter. The doors opened, their name was announced, and she stepped into the hall, her arm elegantly looped through her grandfather's, and he felt for the first time he could not form a certain opinion on a person in front of him.

The flaming locks in an elegant do according to the latest fashion, demure refined dress, long slender neck, she looked regal and dignified, while her strange green eyes were wide and innocent. She held her head high, obviously aware of the apprehension from the society around her, but then a mischievous smile adorned her lips, and she leaned to her grandfather's ear. Her comment was too quiet to be heard, but Harlington's laughter in response was a quiet obvious confirmation that Miss leary was mocking the astounded faces of the guests in the sitting room.

With the evening passing, John felt even more confused. He prefered forming his opinion on people's personality in the first few minutes after being introduced to them. Everything in her was a contradiction, she was not attractive in the general sense, but confident and alluring, and after an hour he realized that most of men were gathered around her. She obviously had good education and impeccable manners, but her views were indeed liberal and soon he found himself in a rather heated and, honestly speaking, unpleasant discussion of women's rights to vote. For the life of him, he could not understand how that transpired, considering he had never before found himself interested in the topic. Even more so, he rarely contradicted anyone in such emotional tone in general, preferring barking commands and intimidating his opponents with sharp arguments and burning glare from his looming height.

Neither seemed to have much influence on Miss Leary's cheerful disposition. Her eyes were glinting with mirth, and he felt even more irritated. John Thorington did not enjoy being laughed at. And then to his own surprise he heard his own voice, and his speech sounded surprising like growling, "I am surprised that a woman of your political disposition, Miss Leary, would then concede to attending such gathering as this, where women are expected to comply with social rules and behave accordingly. Should you not be setting mailboxes on fire and chaining yourself to lampposts? Although I would imagine it to be very hard to do in such a feminine attire."

He could not understand what made him so irked. Was it her curled up lips, seemingly reflecting her inner laughter at some joke, known only to her but obviously made at his expense? Was it the way the green eyes were studying his face and an almost pitying look she gave him when he scornfully cocked his brow when she was talking about Asquith's 'cowardly actions'? Or was it the fact that her skin so radiant, alabastr like seemed to lure him, and he suddenly imagined pressing his lips to her shoulder? He recoiled from his own thoughts, they were not to be addressed at a lady, but something in her awoke the most primal, animalistic surges in him.

He left early, and on his way out he ran into his brother. He was late but still showed up, and John clapped on his shoulder. "Fred, my chap, enjoy the menagerie. It is exceptionally turbulent today." His brother looked at him in confusion, but John only smirked and hurried out. He desperately needed a drink.

Six months later he was returning home when a bell boy rushed to him and grabbed his sleeve. Stunned by such insolence he let the boy drag him in the alley, when a small figure in a hooded cloak stepped out of the shadows. Miss Leary, and it was hard not to recognise her slender build and flaming lock escaping from under the hood, threw the servant a coin, and once he sprinted out of the alley she stepped closer. He opened his mouth to inquire of such strange circumstances, when she pressed her body into him, her arms wrapping around his neck, and suddenly he found himself being kissed by the woman that would not leave his dreams and deprived him of peace.

It took him but a second to realized what was happening, and then his hands lay on her delicate shoulder blades. She had to stand on tiptoes to reach him, and he bent his tall body to accommodate her. Her lips were as soft and as intoxicating as he imagined in his wildest fantasies. She sighed into his lips, and he suddenly felt mad. He pressed her into himself harder, his hands bunching her cloak, and he took charge of the kiss. His head was swimming, strange ringing in his ears, and all his skin heated up. Suddenly she pushed him away and even took a step back. Her face was confused and apprehensive.

And then she gasped and pressed her hands to her mouth. "You are not him, you are not Fredrick..." Her pale face and trembling hands told him at least half of the story. She expected his brother, the appearance indeed hardly distinguishable, especially in the dim light of the streetlamp, and they both prefered the same cut of a jacket. He immediately understood, it was a clandestine affair, her grandfather did not approve. John got momentarily distracted by the thought that such matrimony was indeed impossible, which was one of the many reasons why he strove to avoid seeing Miss Leary in any social circumstances. He assumed Fredrick was not that wise.

"Oh dear, please, promise me you will not tell… How could I have mistaken?" Her remarkable green eyes were roaming his face, and she stepped closer. The faint fragrance of her perfume hit his nose, mixed with the fresh smell of her skin, and a shiver ran through him. Now that he knew the taste of her lips and the contours of her slim body under the cloak, he craved more. She lifted her hand in a pleading gesture. "Please, Mr. Thorington, you have to promise me..."

"I do not have to promise you anything, Miss Leary," his tone was sharp, but only because he was fighting with the burning desire to pull her into himself again. She shrank away from him, but then she governed her emotions, and he saw her jaws clench stubbornly. "What are you inclined to do then? Disclose your brother's secret?" When she was nervous her slight accent was stronger, and he found her rolling r's endlessly alluring. He stepped closer and placed his palms on her shoulders.

She did not move away from him, and he suddenly realized she was as affected by his closeness as he was by hers. As a test he slowly leaned in, keeping their eyes locked, and he saw his lips open slightly. He dove in, pressing his lips to hers, claiming her mouth, pressing his splayed palms to her back. She arched into him, and he saw the long thick lashes flutter. After a few moments of delicious silence, he let her go, and she opened her eyes and suddenly smiled to him. "You are nothing like you twin brother, Mr. Thorington." "You can call me John," he said, his voice raspy, and claimed her mouth once more.

**Post-fic A/N: So I was taking a shower and pondering John Thornton fic, and this absolutely mental idea came. Thorin would totally think that John Thornton was such a wuss, and then they suddenly sauntered into the same story, and making them twin brothers… Yum… Two RA's in one story, John all Thorin-y, dominating and rude, and Fredric softer, better mannered, but no less passionate, just like our beloved RA in North&amp;South… As Dr. River Song used to say, the mind races! :P**


	30. Robin

**A/N: I am BACK! Hello, my lovelies! I MISSED you all so much! Air hugs and kisses to everyone!**

**A/N2: I got stuck in Russia, can you imagine that?! Grrrr... First I got sick, then I had issues with visa. WTF? That is why I don't live in that country anymore!**

**A/N#3: I have TONS of stuff written. It's all in disarray, on my phone and iPad, and requires sorting out. But virtually every story I have will be updated, and there is so much new stuff, mostly about Thorin2 (the one from Ragdollprincess' story). The universe he and his Wren live in (including "Another Night, Another Path," which will now become a series of smutty one-shots) will now be called U2 (lol).**

**A/N#4: This particular story was born on my return trip on the same posh express train, but the mood is, as you will see, very different... It was to be a multific since I simply fell in love with this new OC I had in my head. But I simply couldn't go on... I bawled writing it (imagine the faces of Russian posh riches!) and then bawled rereading it. But worry not, if you liked Robin (yes, yes, bird name again:)! She will reappear in U2 and maybe will find happiness with another Dwarf *nudge nudge***

The first thing he notices about the new girl is her laugh. The second is that her behaviour is endlessly unprofessional. She is spinning on an office chair. He jerks the door to the analysts hall and is presented with the view of something bright purple swirling in front of him, melodic but somehow throaty laugh ringing in his department. Her hair is short and golden, styled in perky spikes on her head, and she is big. Not height wise, even sitting she is obviously a shortie, but she is round. Some might say she is overweight, but one thing for sure. That is a glorious chest. John freezes in the doorframe, and for a second he catches the look of a pair of dark brown, laughing eyes. And then she makes another circle, and this time the brown eyes he fixes his glare on are widened and stunned, and her arms flail to grab the edge of her desk. Then she stumbles, tries to stop her chair, and awkwardly lands on her table, her generous bosom bumping into her desk. She scampers and flails her arms some more. And then she jumps on her feet and tries to pull a polite smile on her face. And then scrunches and starts rubbing her chest. "Ouch, my tits!"

The sequence of these fast energetic actions leaves him staring at her agape. He is not used to people enjoying life in his department. Even less so he is used to people saying "tits" in it. She has straightened up finally and stretches her hand. "Mr. Thorington, I'm Robin Strike. Your new analyst." "Pleasure, Ms. Strike. Call me John." His tone is cold and grouchy. She'll get used to it. Her smile grows warmer and very friendly. "And you call me Robin." He hums nonchalantly. He'd rather die. A familiar dull pain clenches around his heart. What is it with Canadian parents and bird names? He loosens the fist he was not aware he was holding and passes to his office.

**XXX**

Robin likes her new job. It's closer to the field of her degree, she has nice workload, and there is way less stress here than at her previous place. She works in a team of three analysts, and the boss seems fine. Scary like shit, but fine. And the first time he saw her she was swirling on a chair. Alright, she was the first in the office, and she really wanted this job. What? She was celebrating.

She agonized about it at home for the whole evening, but soon enough she realized that the heavy glare and a wrinkle between his eyebrows is his usual facial expression. Everyone is super scared of him.

At least have been for the past five years. Since his wife's car plummeted from a bridge in the middle of a night. Her new colleague shared the story the very first day in the lunch room. She is married and chatty. Having decisively introduced herself, Nat announced, "Do not hope for anything with the boss. That is a deadend." Robin choked on her pilaf. "I wasn't even thinking about it!" "And don't start," Nat pointed at her with the fork, "Everybody starts really quickly. Let's face it, he is hot as hell. Has two kids by the way. Wonderful father too. My Will has lots to learn from him!" Nat's tone is dreamy, and Robin stuffs her mouth with her food. Perhaps, Nat is one of those who started hoping and then had to swallow the disappointment.

Robin gets it. The guy is very attractive. Large heavy body, quite obviously it's all muscles, massive arms, at least six three, and even Robin feels small and delicate near him. And the hair... It's hard to tell when one looks at her at work, all nice blouses and skirts, but Robin is metal. As in going to Germany and Scandinavia for concerts metal. And a luscious ponytail totally works for her. But then again, she is used to admiring men from afar. Her shape was popular in the eighteenth century. These days she is "an acquired taste," as her Grams called her when she was fifteen. Way to give a gal an incurable complex! One of her boyfriends, what a jerk, called her a "kink". He was obviously trying to hurt her, and she sent him packing. But it stang.

And she is really not looking for anything now. And especially not at work. And especially not with a widower whose wife, according to everyone's words, was nearly a saint. And skinny. And a sex goddess at the same time. The story of how her other boss walked on her riding her husband in his office has been told to Robin three times in the first five days at the new job. Mostly by female colleagues. That makes Robin conclude that all of them hoped and tried but failed.

Wren Thorington, and yes, Robin gets the irony of names, was also Canadian, but unlike Manitoban Robin, she sauntered in the life of the dark haired blue eyes Brit when he was reading a newspaper in the Toronto airport. The story was also told to her four times, some of their colleagues were present there too. Future Mrs. Thorington ran his foot over with her suitcase, and in four months they were married. She moved here for him, and nine months later Thomas Dane Oliver Thorington was born. Unna was born three years later. And then Wren didn't manage to keep her car under control on a slippery Minnesotan road. They say she died instantly.

Once some of these details are told to Robin, she understand why she is the only person in the office John doesn't address by her first name. She obviously doesn't insist. After a while "Ms" gets dropped off, and she becomes just Strike. She likes it.

**XXX**

The office door flies open, and one of the most gorgeous women Robin has ever seen in her life strides in. Luxurious chestnut curls, tight dark green dress hugging her minuscule waist, her bust probably Robin's size, the longest legs, and a Louis Vuitton in her hands. She jerks off giant sunglasses of her nose and yells from behind the reception desk. "Thorington, come out whereever you are!"

John's office door bursts open, and he steps out. Robin cannot breathe in. Because he is smiling. In the four months she has worked here she has never seen him smile. He is beautiful.

The gorgeous goddess squeals and clanking her Louboutins she runs through the hall and throws herself on his neck. She is only couple inches shorter than him. She presses kisses on both his cheeks and cups his face. "God, Thorington, you look like shit!" He guffaws. Robin has never heard anything more mesmerising and sexier that this low rumble in his chest, barking laughter, his eyes closed in unrestrained frolics.

"And you are as divine as ever, Ms. Martin!" Oh god, he actually has a flirty tone. "Well, yes, I am!" She throws a mass of her glorious waves behind the shoulder, and his arm encircles her waist. He is leading her in his office, and before the door closes Robin hears John's visitor's melodic voice, "Tell me all about my favourite kiddies! How are they?" John chuckles, "Missing you of course." The door closes and the lock clicks.

Robin screws her eyes on her colleagues. Everyone pretends that nothing just happened, but some of her male colleagues look rather dazed. Nat catches her eyes, "It's Thea Martin. She comes to visit from time to time. She was his wife's best friend. Married to some billionaire." Robin hums and goes back to her screen. She is scared. Because when the slender arms of Thea Martin wrapped around his neck, and Robin is a big girl, she is no coward to admit it to herself, she felt jealous.

And she tells herself that it is not romantic. In the past months she started feeling that John Thorington is hers. Like he is everyone else's in the office. Pained, brooding, never discussing anything but work, his eyes sometimes going blank during meetings. She feels protective of him. They hardly exchanged more than a dozen phrases that were not directly related to their work, but Robin has a big heart. John Thorington with all his reserve and haughty manners is one big bleeding wound. It is strange to see him talking to someone else, smiling for that matter, but then Robin remembers that he must have some other life there. Outside their office door he has two gorgeous children, she saw their photos, a separate shelf allocated specifically for them.

His wife's photos are there too. The first time Robin saw them, she was dropping off some reports, she froze her eyes glued to them. He lifted his face from his papers, and it contorted in pain. Robin jerked and scampered from his office.

Wren Thorington was nothing Robin expected. Skinny, angular, not a beauty in general understanding. Strange slanted eyes, freckled face, a mop of orange curls. In the central large photo on the shelf she is laughing, her mouth open, some green goo dripping from her hair, smeared over her cheek, and a chubby baby is her arms is swinging a plastic spoon. She had a wide mouth, lips red and curved. She looked like a woman who laughed a lot.

There is a photo from some formal event. She is pressed in John's side, smiling into the camera, her head set proudly, posture regal, and Robin thinks with envy that she probably can never hope to radiate such assurance and dignity. In his hand he is holding her shawl. On her Robin sees a mini black dress, tall strappy sandals, her feet are tiny, neck long and elegant. John's eyes are on his wife, as if no world exists around them. No one has ever looked at Robin with so much adoration.


	31. Who Needs Drink When You're So in Love?

**A/N: Re: killing off Wren in the previous chapter. I didn't kill her for the sake of Robin. I was bedraggled by the visit to my parents, and it just happened. Robin came out of the mist later. I thought with Wren gone I would write a fic that glorifies her, everyone remembering and missing her, discussing her, but then my heart broke, and I couldn't go on. It's not just me being attached to Wren. Which is as obvious as it gets. I think it's about what they are for each other. Wren and consequently different versions of her were created to be perfect for each new version of Thorin and thus there is no Thorin without Wren in my writing. I do not claim other Thorins. But in my stories Wren and Thorin/John are each other's salvation. And thus this John is so lost and pained... I just can't do it to him... It's not about her being gone, it's about him never being complete without her again. There is void there, and the way I see it Robin could never fill it. As RagdollPrincess said, he would simply steamroll her. Our grumpy is quite a piece of work. Wren is just very good at handling him. But Robin will stay with us. In a hobbit form, she is even more adorable! ;)**

**"Picked Me Up" by Okou**

The disgusting beeping jerks you out of the soft and fuzzy bliss of sleep. Bugger, that's the phone.

_J.: Are you asleep? Sorry if I woke you up, sweet. I just miss you so much :(_

Oh, poor sod, he must be so lonely there. You yawn. John got held back at home, you are already at the lodge. Your tradition, every year to come back to the resort where you met. You nuzzle the pillow and chuckle. You were drunk, and then he tumbled off a slope. Very heroically, protecting other skiers from injuries, given, but still… A very popular story at dinner tables.

_W.: I am not anymore. Miss you too. How is Bilbo?_

That's your dog, he got some sort of stomach bug. John had to take him to a vet.

_J.: He is fine. Already begging for a biscuit. Refused him decisively. Dea will pick him up tomorrow before my plane._

_W.: No biscuits. I still half suspect it was food poisoning. I bet he mooched something from Mr Balinson. Are you in bed already?_

_J.: Yes, and it is cold. I miss you._

Hm, someone is persistent… Is he hinting on something? That would be new.

_W.: Do you now?_

_J.: I miss all of you but at the moment I really miss your body. _

Yep, he is. That would be definitely new. Given you did have to spend some time separated before and you did chat about being randy those times, but he is very much more straightforward than before. Nice.

_W.: What exactly do you miss?_

_J.: I miss your taste._

Wow, that is so hot! Blimey, the guy is not wasting any time, is he? Or did you read too much into it?

_J.: And how quickly you get wet for me._

Nope, you were not reading too much into it. You are suddenly hot and push the blankets off your shoulders. The lodge is always cold, you even brought some additional quilts. You are not cold anymore for certain.

_W.: I do. I want you almost all the time. _

_J.: I love pushing my hand into your knickers and finding you hot and wet already. _

God, you are actually doing it! Alrighty, time to raise the stakes.

_W.: I love it when you push your fingers into me this way. Move my knickers aside and stick two fingers into me._

_J.: Which hole are we talking about?_

All deities almighty, the guy is randy! And so much more open and assertive in the texts! Wow! Hot, definitely hot!

_W.: Which one would you like to start with?_

_J. Both. Spread you on the bed and play with you. Mouth and hands. Everything goes._

You shift on the bed uncomfortably. That will need to be addressed manually at some point but so far you are too interested in what he will say next.

_W.: And?.._

_J.: Suck at your clit. Stick my tongue into you. I love how your body jerks when I do that._

Mother of god, is there any filter between his thoughts and his texts? You push your hand into your PJ trousers.

_W.: And then?..._

He is quiet for a few seconds. You assume his hand is busy.

_J.: Then I would flip you over and kiss your bum. I love it. It's so perky and round. And then you would sit and spread your legs. I want to kneel in front of you near the couch._

That is oddly specific. Funny that he included your furniture. But he is right, the couch is the perfect height. As it has been tested repeatedly through years.

_W.: Then I would put my legs on your shoulders._

He is quiet again.

_J.: Sorry dropped my phone. You know how much I love it when you do it. Your lips get squished and you clench me so tight. Your lips are puffy and pink…_

_W.: Oh fuck. It is so hot. I am so wet right now._

Your hand has started moving already.

_J.: Oh Wrennie, I miss you so much. Are you touching yourself?_

_W.: You bet. I am imagining these are your fingers._

_J.: I wouldn't be using my fingers on you love. Can I have a picture?_

Oh my fucking god. You haven't even thought of it. Honestly people who have been married for five years should not be enjoying sexting so much. It's just obscene. You wiggle out of your PJs and start twisting trying to find a good angle. You know he likes that area, but seriously you doubt you can take a nice photo of that… You know your good angles when it comes to your face, but the lady parts… Is there even a good angle? The camera in your mobile clicks, and you peer. Hm, it's actually cute… All pink and flower like… Well, there is no way back. You hit "Send."

_J.: God Wrennie I really need to fuck you right now._

Oh god. Never in all these years have you heard him swear. More so, calling what happens between you two thusly. Though let's face it, it is exactly what it is sometimes. He is very diverse in bed. Sexy beast…

_W.: Touch yourself John, think about me. Imagine me sucking on you right now. I love it so much._

_J.: I know. You do look like you enjoy it. And you are drenched when you are doing it._

You bet. You can actually come like that. You are very proud of yourself.

_W.: Imagine me cupping up your balls and massaging them the way you like. The skin there is different and I love licking them._

_J.: You are_

_J.: Sorry hit send too fast. I meant you are very good at it. You are amazing. Your BJs should be glorified in some monument or something._

You momentarily imagine a bronze monument of you kneeling in front of him and giggle. Silly goose!

_W.: We wouldn't want other people to see me like that. Would we John?_

_J.: No of course not. But I love watching you in the mirror when you are sucking me off._

What?! There is indeed a large mirror in the bedroom, but you haven't given it much thought before. Bugger, it makes sense. He indeed can see your bum propped up in the air when he is lying down and you are… Hm, well, you know…

_W.: Perv. Are you staring at my bum when I am performing fellatio on you?_

_J.: And your lips. They are open and wet. And all I want at that moment is push you on the bed and shag your brains out._

_W.: You do that sometimes. Funny I would expect you to want to prolong it. _

_J.: I do enjoy it immensely. Especially that one thing you do when you take me very deep and then massage me with your throat. My tip hits your throat wall and it feels so good._

You are close and probably should slow down.

_W.: How close are you John?_

_J.: Send me a picture of your tits and I'll probably be done. I miss them._

Yep, Mr. Thorington is all for equality. Butt and boobs receive equal amount of love. You rise on your knees and lift your top. Only the undersides of your breasts seen, you click the camera. He will get a nice view of your curls, your stomach and the undersides that he likes so much. The stomach is popular too. You have a tattoo of his name on your side, intertwined with oaken branches.

_J.: You are so beautiful Wrennie._

_W.: Thank you darling. What are you thinking about at the moment?_

_J. It is a bit too dirty. I should keep it to myself._

Backing off now, are we John? And what you talked about before wasn't dirty?!

_W.: Are you thinking about jerking off on my stomach love?_

He is quiet again, and you are almost certain why. You move your fingers quicker, think about his strong hands and blue eyes, and come with a loud moan. You are panting and after a few moments your phone beeps again.

_J.: That did it. I had to address the geyser in our bedroom :)_

Barmy muppet! You like him so much that it's embarrassing at times.

_W.: I am glad I could help. Can I go back to sleep now?_

_J.: Yes, and I will see you tomorrow. I love you so much, sweet._

_W.: And I you. See you tomorrow. Now you need to rise to the standard you set up today._

_J.: I bought us a present for the anniversary. It's remote controlled and can go either way. I'll handle the new standards. Will you?_

Oh poop!


	32. Jets

**A/N: For my beloved ****RagdollPrincess! ****You are the bestest of the best! I thought I'd die laughing from your song prompt!**

**A/N#2: The idea came from the discussion of the popular trope of placing a person from our world into Middle Earth... **

"**Thong Song" by Sisqo**

**Part 1**

The world swirls around, sort of feels like that one time you went with your first boyfriend to a funfair and to prove him you were no wuss you went to that one ride. Needless to say, violently puking in front of him made you rather unattractive. Whatever, he sucked at French kissing. Wait… Meaning he was horrible! But there was excessive sucking as well... Yuck…

After a few moments of colourful swirls and nauseating flips that your sadly empty stomach is making, you find yourself standing in the middle of a very green field. Like, seriously, it is way too green. A moment ago you were walking on Graham Street, pondering your miserable life, and then next you find yourself… Well, by the looks of it, it is New Zealand or something. Hm…

A cup of caramel Frappuccino still clenched in your hand, you are a vision in blue. Stupid denim dress, that looks like nineties are going to call any moment and demand the camouflage pattern back, flip flops, because the shoes you were wearing have left you with bloodied blisters, and a handbag that is stubbornly dislocating your shoulder, all together you are not quite ready for hiking.

You are suddenly terrified. Isn't there like thousands of breeds of poisonous snakes in New Zealand? Or is it Australia? This is bloody more important than the mechanics of how you got here at the first place! You are in the middle of a freaking field. You are really not an outdoors person. You are a freak, you are a disgrace to all the daughters of prairies. The closest you came to hiking was tenting in front of the Legislature Building in that protest thing you went to with your friend Thea. And that was to impress that hot guy, who ended up to be a douche… Long story...

You take a sip of your Frappuccino and do the most logical thing a modern girl can do in the situation like this. You start rummaging through your purse looking for your cell phone. No service. Right… You stare at the sad empty triangle in the corner of the screen. And the battery is almost empty. Bugger…

It is also rather hot. Not too much, but your pale skin protests. You pull out the sunscreen out of it, let's face it, it contains pretty much everything, you name it, it has it, and generously spray yourself. Then you put on a pair of sunglasses and feeling somewhat better, you finally look around.

It is a field. Freaking field… Literally, there is nothing else. Something at the horizon, perhaps mountains. You suck in more of the caffeinated goodness and realize that it's almost done, and the ice has melted. It's slightly watery, but you will miss it like the dearest of friends.

And then you see a group of people appearing from behind a low hill on your right. There are about ten of them, and they are marching vigorously. Alrighty, it might not be that bad. They might be hikers… Or rangers… Do they have rangers in New Zealand? You quickly think of how much money you have in your purse. Will they take your loonies? And also you quickly push your hand inside it and find your pepper spray. Just to be on the safe side, you know… You work in downtown, you are prepared to anything.

The energetically sauntering group comes closer, and you feel suddenly nauseated. They are definitely not hikers. They are short, wide, hairy men. With axes. What the actual fuck?! You grasp pepper spray tighter in your hand.

OK, don't panic, Wren, it is not that bad… The voice in your head is shrieky. What do you mean it is not that bad?! They are obviously crazy. Look at the clothes, velvet and shit, and is that freaking armour?! Wait…

And then you feel suddenly better. They are obviously larpers! You exhale. Thank goodness, phew… You feel immediately more relaxed. They are usually harmless, all in their elvish world, silicon ears and stuff. You are still holding on to your pepper spray, but you feel better.

You patiently wait for them to approach, and then their leader finally notices you. Bloody hell, would you look at these eyes! God, you are actually uncomfortable from his attractiveness. You are usually fine with hot guys. You are not so bad yourself, guys like gingers. But this one is way too intense! And how do they make themselves so wide? Is it some sort of prosthetics? Do they have some rugs stuffed under their coats?

His blue eyes are scanning you. Damn, such a pity he is a mental case. Look at these lips, the hair, wait, is it a wig too? And hell, the nose. You've got a bit of a fetish, you just like long noses, and this one is… Yum…

You pull a smile on your face and step forward. A scary looking dude near the hottie grabs his axe. Wow, they are taking their little hobby way too seriously!

"Hi! Sorry to bother you but I'm sort of lost, so..." You probably shouldn't tell them you have just teleported here. Beam me up, Scotty, for fuck sake! They probably don't like trekkies. "Could you help me out a bit? Maybe direct me to the nearest village or something..." You start mumbling under the piercing stare of the long nosed hunk. Damn…

He screws his eyes sideways and exchanges looks with the bold and scary. The rest of the group catches up with the first two, and you just can't stop staring. Dear lord, that is totally barmy! Seriously, there is a dude whose hair looks like a starfish, there is a super round guy, and what's with the braids?! And is that an _ushanka_?! It totally looks like the Russian two-eared hat!

And then you catch the eyes of another hottie. This one is younger, not your type, but mamma mia! And wait, another one! For the life of you you wouldn't be able to choose! One is all sunlight and smirk, another one all dark eyes, like black cherries or truffles, and the most kissable lips ever… My oh my…

"Who are you, honorable maiden? And what are you doing in the Vales of Anduin?" And here we go. Forget the boys, give me the man! Were you not that shocked and shaken by the whole teleporting without spilling your drink thing, you would have come right here, right now! Is he lowering his orgasmic voice on purpose or he is just that gifted?

You lick your lips and finally meet his eyes. And then the question reaches your brain. Well, hell, obviously the guys are staying in the image. OK, let's see what you can conjure. "Honourable sir, I am Wren..." Bloody hell, you probably need some romantic name here too, but whatever, "Wren of Winnipeg, and I am lost in these valleys. Would you be so kind as to direct me to the closest dwelling?"

And then boom! He cocks a brow, and you are dead! Seriously, dead. Or trembling and horny, depends on how you look at it. You are pretty sure this gesture is illegal in most of the States, they are such Puritans there in the South. Good thing, you people of the Chicago of the North are more tolerant towards blatantly sexy dudes. Purrr… You are not just tolerant, you are mentally undressing him. Forget the larping thing, he is delectable! They are probably not getting any, poor sods, with all their weirdness!

"The nearest dwelling, my lady, is in five day's travel from here." You nod just because anything he says sounds so good. Wait, what?!

"Um… What?! Seriously, dude, are you kidding me?!"

And then the tattooed dude steps forwards, snarling, and you squeak.

"You will address the man in front of you with respect, lass. This is Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, the King Under the Mountain!"

The hottie puts his hand on the scary shit dude's shoulder.

"Dwalin, you are frightening her. She is obviously fuddled." What?! Fuddled?! His attractiveness fades a wee bit.

"I am not fuddled! You are fuddled! Running around fields in stupid outfits with foil swords!" Yep, the third Frappuccino was a bad idea. You do not react well to caffeinated drinks, ginger's curse. But you were stressed, not every day you fail a job interview so embarassignly. Damn your gob, you just couldn't keep some of that info to yourself… But let's face it, the guy was dumb, you could do his job better than him. Well, could have done if you hadn't failed the interview. "Listen guys, I get it, you are having fun here, and I am ruining your pretty picture. So just tell me how to get to the city and I'll be on my way. You will continue your larping thing, and I'll take a cab and find some hotel for myself. OK?"

They are staring at you as if you are speaking Mandarin. Guh… The hottie is silent, some of the other ones are exchanging whispers. All together they don't look that threatening, but you are so jittery today. You start backing off.

"OK, I get it. You are on a quest, or something. I won't bother you anymore. Just wave towards the city, and be well." For no particular reason you salute. The black brow cocks again. Damn, he is hot...

The dark haired younger one lifts his arm, such a cutie, but an older guy with an ear trumpet shushes him. Tosser. They all stare at the blue eyed dreamy one. Well, they are taking the whole subordination thing seriously. Thorin, son of Thrain, son of something else frowns. You have a clear image of licking his neck in your head and slightly shake your head. Funny, since you broke up with Allan you really haven't thought of any of that, and now you are drooling over a loser with giant prosthetic ears. Barmy… Let's hope the beard is real at least, so yum… Wait, you actually hate facial hair. Well, there is the first time for everything...

"Where have you come from, my lady?" Oh, so grumpy! So mistrustful! This look from under his brows is really working for him. He is like an inch taller than you but he probably can be really intimidating. And then you finally come to your senses. Seriously, why are they all so short? Have they met online, "shorties only" forum or something? You are short? I am short too. Let's get dressed like a mix between a viking and a cameo from _Tudors_ TV show and let us run through fields picking daisies! And their prosthetics do look very good. Like professional. Have they bought them from Steven Spielberg or something? Or that New Zealand guy who makes all those medieval films? You are not into this stuff, but even you were impressed.

"I have come from the glorious city of Winnipeg, the slurpee capital of the world," you just can't hold back the snark, can you, Wren?

"I am not familiar with such place. Where is it located?" Yeah, yeah, you have heard it many times. Manitoba, what's that? Is it near Connecticut? Whatever.

"Winnipeg is a glorious and prosperous city, your majesty, it is the birthplace of Bugs Bunny and Nia Vardalos," you haughtily lift your chin. Nothing else comes to mind, but there were definitely some other celebrities there… Hm… Oh right! "And it is the home city of Winnipeg Jets!" Nope? The info obviously doesn't register. You suddenly have an idea and rummage through your purse and pull out your Jets keychain. "Seriously, dude, they had Alexander Burmistrov there for a while, he was in the Russian National team when they won the World Cup!" You dangle the blue token in front of his long nose. And then your phone starts ringing.

And suddenly with deafening clanking and banging they all pull out their weapons, and the whole group sort of shrinks and turns into this one scary arse hedgehog, sturdy bodies pressed together, axes and swords sticking out at all sides. A round, grey haired bloke squeals, "It is dark magic! She will place a spell on us!"

Seriously?

**A/N: Want more? Hit me with song prompts! :P**


	33. Salt

**A/N: This one is for ****gemini-6989****! Your prompts put me in the giggliest of moods! Thank you, darling!**

**A/N#2: ****Dearreader****, Wren vs. Barmy Larpers Part 2 is coming up based on your **_**All My Exes Live in Texas.**_** I was uncontrollably giggling and snorting in a coffee shop drafting it, I am certain people thought I was mental :)**

_**Volcano Girls**_** by Veruca Salt**

Bloody hell and all deities almighty, this is one sketchy area! John slows down his car and start twisting his neck uncomfortably trying to read the name of the street on an old brick building. No sodding luck. Bloody fuck… It is ten to ten, and this is his last chance to find a bottle shop. He growls. Barmy uni professors, they do take celebrating, or should he say mourning, the beginning of an academic year all too seriously! They are dragging him to some home party right after his first lecture tomorrow, and he was a plonker enough to offer to get some wine. What do Canadian professors even drink? He snarls and pretty much stops. At least he is on the proper side of the road, they should give him a medal for that.

Suddenly he sees a girl showing up from what they call a backalley in here. He tenses, she is definitely a slag. Black hair, dark lipstick, a black top that looks more like a vest, he is scared to look, but probably leather, fishnet stockings, and boots above her knees. She is decisively heading towards his car, and he considers speeding up. But then again, he is completely lost.

She bends and knocks at the window. She doesn't have to really bend to be honest, even on the giant heels she is wearing, she is ickle. He exhales and lowers the window.

"Listen, lassy, I am not interested, but I'll give you a tenner if you tell me where McDermoth street is." He adds some steel in his tone.

She is frozen with her mouth open. She has a wide mouth, and the burgundy lipstick really emphasizes it. These are amazing eyes though… They are outlined with an obscene amount of black paint, but the shape and the colour! Slanted, bright green, amazing! Without all this horrid make-up she would look like a fay…

"Wow, a Brit!" She has a nice voice, but he puts his finger on a button.

"I'm closing the window, if you don't want to help me. Well, in or out?"

"Actually, I was really hoping for an in," she smiles playfully, and he presses the button. "Hey, hey, wait, don't close it! I need your help!"

"Not interested!"

"OK, OK, I'll tell you where McDermoth is." He stops and lowers the glass again. "Let me in your car and I'll show it to you."

"No way in hell!" He clearly imagines her knocking him out with a cricket bat. And then he guffaws. She has nowhere to hide it in this outfit. And they don't play cricket here. Or do they?

"Listen, buddy, you need your street, and I need to get the hell out of here. Give me a ride to McDermoth. Don't you feel obliged to save a damsel in distress?" Since when slags are so well-spoken? There are only five minutes left, and he unlocks the door. She slides on the seat, and it is fucking perfume from Hermès. His ex wife wore it. What the fuck?!

The girl gestures. "Drive straight, then turn right on the second turn."

He presses the accelerator, and the car jumps ahead. The girl is quiet, and he screws his eyes at her. She has freckles on her nose and judging by the porcelain skin she is a ginger. That is definitely a wig. He turns, and she points her finger. "That's McDermoth right there, what are you looking for?"

"A bottle shop."

She shakes her head. "You are probably late, they close at ten." She lifts her right arm and looks at her wrist. She is wearing pink neon Swatch.

He stops in front of the shop, and sure enough it is closed. He swears under his breath. She is quietly looking through the window.

"Now where?" She sounds bored and polite. He is livid. He hates being put in an awkward position.

"Now you are getting out of my car and legging it wherever you need to."

She gives him an appraising look. "Are you sure you can't drive me a bit further?"

He leans to the door handle over her and jerks. His elbow brushes her middle, and it's like he is electrocuted. He turns his head and stares into her eyes. They are magnificent! And the skin! And the lips under the stupid lipstick! For a second he freezes and realizes that she is holding her breath. Her pupils are dilated. God, she is beautiful!

He pushes the door open. "Get out." She is still staring at him. "Now!"

She shrugs and climbs out of his car. She turns to the still open door, but he leans again and slams the door closed. He jams his foot into the pedal, just so he wouldn't let himself doubt it for even a second, she is just doing something to his grey matter, and the car speeds up with a squeak of wheels on the asphalt. He is berating himself, to feel attracted to a slag… What was it?! There was just something about her...

Bloody Canada…

**XXX**

He is leaving the auditorium, some of his new students passing him, goodbying, and then suddenly someone tugs at his sleeve. He turns and sees a ginger girl. The curls are wild, a flowerbed of orange springs on her head, and she is wearing Grandpa glasses. She is smiling, and he recognizes the eyes.

"You are the guy from yesterday, aren't you?" There is no make-up on her, not even mascara. She is wearing a plaid shirt and denim, and looks as Canadian as it gets.

He has photographic memory and the page from Wikipedia pops up in his head. 1.2 million Irish immigrants arrived to Canada between 1825 and 1970, at least half of those in the period from 1831–1850. By 1867, they were the second largest ethnic group (after the French), and comprised 24% of Canada's population. The 1931 national census counted 1,230,000 Canadians of Irish descent, half of whom lived in Ontario.

She smiles. "Are you a prof?" She is open and direct. Pity she is a slag. And they say that it only happens in films. Perhaps she does do it to pay for school. What an absurd situation… "Listen, about yesterday..."

"I am not going to tell anybody. Let's just forget what happened."

"What do you mean what happened?" She pushes the glasses up the delicate bridge of her nose. "Nothing happened except you threw me out of your car, which I think was rather ungentlemanly."

"I mean let's forget what you do… What I know you do..." Bollocks, why is it so awkward?

"And what it is that I do exactly?" She frowns, and then another bird runs up to her. This one is tall, bright and busty.

"Wrennie, my love, I've been looking for you everywhere… Oh hello! I'm Thea," she stretches her hand, and he automatically shakes it. Damn politeness of a trained puppy! What is he getting himself into?

The redhead points at him with her eyes, "This is the guy from yesterday I told you about."

"The douche who threw you out of the car on McDermoth?!" All the friendliness is gone from the busty one's face. "Not cool, dude! Do you know the type of people who live there? Or should I say who work there?!" He simply can't believe it. Is it a Monty Python skit?! The one called Thea tut-tuts at him and loops her arm. "Common, darling, your labrats await."

"Sure, in a second," the one called Wren looks at him. Her eyes are laughing. "I just had a revelation." She steps closer to him, and he shies away. She chuckles. That is one sexy chuckle, damn it. God, what is wrong with him?! "Yesterday you thought I was a hooker. I am right, am I not?"

He is staring at her in shock, and she starts laughing. It is loud, open mouthed laughter, and her friend Thea soon joins in. They are roaring, both eventually wrapping their arms around themselves.

"He thought you were a hooker..." Thea is wiping her tears.

"He did," the redhead is leaning, her knees literally weak from laughter, and he catches her under her arm. "And I have PhD!" She is almost sobbing. "Oh god, I've never been in a funnier situation… A hooker..."

He feels like a plonker, but it is almost OK. As long as she is laughing and grabbing his arm. God, she is gorgeous!

"Oh, it is priceless!" The other one is leaning on a wall. "Tell him what you do, tell him! I want to see his face!"

"I teach Genetics, I am a prof here. As you are, I suppose." He has never in his life felt that humiliated. And then another question pops up in his head. How old is she? She looks so young! "And answering you unasked question, older than you think." She is mocking him, but he deserves it.

Finally his voice returns to him. "Then what on Earth was that outfit?!"

More laughter erupts, and she is patting his upper arm. "We were at the nineties party yesterday. Some of our old friends from school threw it, and I don't drink so I decided to leave early. And the cab didn't come." He is staring into her eyes. God, he arsed every chance he had with her, didn't he?

She wipes her tears and breathes out. "Gosh, that was fun. Lunch?" She is smiling into his eyes, and he nods. She pats his shoulder and starts walking. That is a glorious backside! He follows and mentally thanks all possible deities for her sense of humour.

She gives him a flirty look over her shoulder, "And by the way, it is your treat. One has to pay for his pleasures." God, she is perfect!


	34. Love and Hammer

**A/N: That's a completely bonkers idea that came to me while I was cooking pasta. I saw Athena's picture on the olive oil bottle and my mind leaped into Greek mythology. Thorin as Hephaestus made me burn my dinner and run to the computer. Enjoy my madness, my lovelies! If you like it, I'll continue :)**

"Hey, Phro! A word?" You are dangling your foot in the clear pond, your toes gently caressing a water lily. It prims up, petals immediately coloured with a gentle pink blush. Thea walks from around a tree, her curvaceous body clad in a tunic of the latest fashion, an inch above her knees, a very popular slit cut on her right thigh. She is so fit, you don't need to do your magic for everyone to go randy around her. Seriously, how do they still call her the Virgin Goddess of Wisdom? You sigh, you are bored. "Phro, are you listening to me?" You turn your head and frown at Thea.

"How many times have I asked you not to call me that? Somehow you got a proper nickname, Thea, instead of some obnoxious Athy. Spare me the Phro!" She helps her owl from off her shoulder and lowers the sleepy bird on a branch of your myrtle bush. Then she sits on the grass near you and looks at your attentively.

"You do not seem that bedraggled," her voice is cautious. You are twirling a mirror in your hands. You inspect your nose and pleased with your freckles, they are additionally adorable today, you look at her askew.

"Why would I be bedraggled?" You quickly think back at the latest news. Nothing to really concern you. Eros got pissed again, shot some old blighter in Lindos, that was hilarious. Dad was cheesed off, but who can stay angry to the chubby berk? He is such a darling. Hermes nicked Apollo's lyre again, and there is some chat about Daphne and Hermes, but honestly, you have nothing to do with it. The daft kiddies have gotten into this aggro themselves. "Have I missed something?"

Thea bites into her plump bottom lip, and you are suddenly very, very uncomfortable. She is after all a goddess of war, directness is in her nature, her awkward squirming is freaking you out. "Common, Thea, you are being dodgy! What is it?"

She puts her warm palm on your shoulder, "Dad announced it today at the staff meeting, he made his decision..." You don't like the sound of it, you are bloody not liking it at all. You were not at the meeting, your were fixing a cocked up marriage of one senator on Cyprus. "He chose the husband for you, I thought Hermes has already came to talk to you about it..."

"What?!" You jump up on your feet. No fucking way in hell! Or should you say, in Hades. And then a scary thought comes. Oh no, please tell me, it's not Hades! Him and his Gothic make up, all black, and that weird Scandinavian rock with barmy mealing sounds in it that he is listening to! "I am not going to bloody like it, am I?"

Judging by Thea's facial expression, you are not. Bugger, it is Hades. Even Apollo is better than Hades, he is a ponce and such, but at least he has a taste in clothes. There is still a chance it is Ares, but he is a bloody jock! All muscles and testerone, guh… You really prefer sensitive blokes, artistic type, the ones you can talk poetry to…

"It is Hephaestus…" Bloody sod, you are fucked! You plop on the grass and stare at Thea. The corners of her mouth are lowered mournfully.

"No, Thea, tell me you are taking a piss out of me here! Not him..." She sadly nods, and you flail your arms. "Is Dad bladdered? In what universe me and Hephaestus is a brill idea? The bloke is grotty!" You cover your face with your hands and groan. "The limp. The manky clothes, have you seen his toga? It is so last season. And he is obsessed with his hammer!" Thea snorts. "Oh grow up! You are supposedly the goddess of wisdom! Not that hammer!" You sit up, your eyes widened in panic. "Speaking of hammers, what if he… you know… small? I can't marry a bloke with a tiny pecker! I am a goddess of shagging after all! What will people say?!"

Thea pats your shoulder. "He is probably alright. He is tall and wide after all..."

You screw your eyes at her. "Are you telling me you don't know what's under his toga? Common, Thea, I am not that dozy, surely you have been there, you glorious trollop." She vigorously shakes her head. "Thea..." Your tone is menacing.

"I swear to you, Phro, I have not. I'll tell you the whole story, but promise me, you'll never tell it to anybody else!" You solemnly nod. She sighs. "I did go to him once, you know, to the forge. He threw me out." You hike up your brows. "Literally, he grabbed me across my middle and threw me out. There was some giant washtub there, I guess they dunk the swords in it after forging, so I landed in it. That pillock ruined my toga! And I had just got commissioned to my arachne." You are gaping at her. That is the most mental story you have ever heard. No one says "no" to Thea. Especially to Thea in her special togas. The arachne know what they are doing.

A horrible thought comes to your mind. "He is floppy, isn't he? That is what it is about."

"No, I am certain, he is not. A bit po-faced and Billy no-mates, but I'm sure..." You do not let her finish. With a tragic sob you fall on the ground, all flowers immediately withering around you. A couple of dead birds fall off a tree and Thea's owl isn't looking that healthy either.

You are bawling. "I don't want to marry him. I want parties, roses, myrtle, my swans and sparrows, and doves..."

Thea is momentarily distracted from your hysterics. "What's with you and bloody birds, Phro?"

"Oh bugger off, Thea! I love birds. They are fluffy and cheery! Look at the latest thing I made!" You conjure a wren on your palm and show it to her. She is looking at the bird with suspicion, and you sniff. "It's a wren, you barmpot! Look how cute it is! And look at this upturned arse! Such a fit bird, all other birds will be in love with it!" Thea looks very doubtful, and you fall on the grass again.

You are sobbing, and she moves a bit closer. "Seriously, Phro, he is not that bad! Have you seen his chest and arms?" That shushes your crying a bit. What about his chest and arms? You are struggling to remember what he looked like exactly, after Hera threw him out of Olympus no one has seen much of him. He was dark, that much you can recall, tall, wide, and there was something strange about his eyes. Either they were of some mental colour, or one was different from another... Around that time you were so preoccupied with Adonis, the eyes of some limping geezer were the least of your concerns. He had manky clothes that's for sure.

You sit up and wipe your eyes. "I don't remember what he looked like..." And then you shake your head sadly, "But you of all people should know, Thea, that looks aren't everything, the content of his noggin is more important." Judging by the fact that Thea is suddenly preoccupied with her nails, she is not very optimistic regarding Hephaestus' noggin. Neither are you. The bloke is working his arse off in a forge all day. You have nothing in common.

You decisively get up and throw your ginger curls behind your shoulders. You are not going to give up that easily, you are a goddess, and not some chavvy goddess of baking cookies or something. You are beauty, you are love, you are Aphrodite. You are not letting them marry you out to some uneducated, unsophisticated geezer whose sacred animal is a donkey!

You straighten your shoulders and clap. The previously dead birds and flowers around you rejoice, chirping and pleasant aroma fill the air, and you look at Thea haughtily. "I want to see Dad. I need to talk to him. Surely there was some mistake, and someone in HR arsed up." Thea is silent. "What?"

"It was Dad's decision. He chose Hephaestus himself."

"What?!" It seems to be the word of the day. "Based on what sodding argument?"

"Pretty much all gods voted and decided that you needed to marry someone… Well… Not so fit. To balance how hot you are." You are staring at her again. "You know, you are all lush and a sex kitten, so they thought it'll sort of balance you out. And Dad suggested Hephaestus." What the actual fuck? "And the Smith agreed. They sent Hermes to him, and he said he would marry you."

"He said he would marry me..." You feel like all air has been knocked out of you. "Tell me the truth, Thea," you slowly turn to her and pin her down with a burning glare. She squirms. "What exactly did the bloody Smith say?"

She sighs and gives in to her fate, "He said he would marry a horse if he were allowed to return to Olympus for that." You clench a fist and grind your teeth. A horse?! You will show him a horse! You will break his other leg and after you are done with him the story of your birth will seem a cheery bedtime story in comparison with what you will do to his cock! You conjure a cloak and wrap in it.

"Phro, where are you?..."

You turn to her, and she shrinks away from the rage in your eyes. "I am going to visit my dearest future hubby. I am going to give him a chance to look his gift horse in the mouth so to say." You flex your fingers. You might not have Thea's spear or Temmy's bow, but you can always just knock a few of his teeth out. Since they are marrying you out to him for his mankiness, no one will care if he is missing a couple of canines.


	35. Boudica

_Year 60 AD. __ By the order of Emperor Nero, Roman governor Gaius Suetonius Paulinus is leading a campaign on the island of Anglesey off the northwest coast of Wales__. Local tribe Iceni, led by their Queen, having taken command after her husband had died, she herself had been flogged and her daughters raped, __destroys Camulodunum (modern Colchester). Upon hearing the news of the revolt, Suetonius hurries to Londinium (modern London), the twenty-year-old commercial settlement that is the rebels' next target. Boudica's forces march through their land. The Romans, having concluded that they do not have the numbers to defend the settlement, evacuated and abandoned Londinium. Boudica leads 100,000 Iceni, Trinovantes and others to fight the Legio IX Hispana and burns and destroys Londinium, and Verulamium (modern-day St Albans). An estimated 70,000–80,000 Romans and British are killed in the three cities by those led by her. Suetonius, meanwhile, regroups his forces in the West Midlands, and despite being heavily outnumbered, defeats the Britons in the Battle of Watling Street. The crisis causes the Emperor Nero to consider withdrawing all Roman forces from Britain, but Suetonius's eventual victory over Boudica confirms Roman control of the province. Boudica is rumoured to have killed herself so she would not be captured, or having fallen ill, or dead . _

"General, the legion of procurator Bomburius has returned, they have brought the barbarian Queen with them!" General Thorinus lifts his eyes from the parchment and gives a soldier that has just rushed into his tent a dark glare. Surely, that buffoon had no chance to capture the cursed witch. Even with her alleged illness, she is as elusive as water seeping through the sand.

"Send the procurator in." Thorinus stretches tired legs and rubs his face with his palms. Cursed island, cursed weather, always raining, always damp! The old chariot accident injury makes his knee and right shoulder ache. He had almost hoped the Emperor would withdraw them from the cursed Britannia. Surely, Gods were in the bad mood when creating the swamp of a continent.

The beaming procurator rolls into the tent, a ring of copper hair surrounding his gleaming bald spot.

"Ave Caesar! Vale salve, my general!"

"Salve vale, procurator," the general's voice is grouchy. Not that he dislikes the procurator, but he feels hemicrania approaching, and the world already seems bleak.

"We caught her, my general! We ran into their camp, and they were obviously panicked. There was the main fire, we saw her, they all were protecting her! We slayed every one of them, women ran, and we caught her!" Then procurator is so excited that he is bobbing on his round legs. "Hair like fire, and she wore that!" The procurator lifts his plump palm, and the general sees a magnificent golden neck ring. It is most definitely the famous Celtic torc of Queen Boudica.

"Well done, procurator," the general's face is schooled into a polite approval. "The Emperor will hear of your success. Now would you be so kind as to send the prisoner to me?"

"She is unscathed, my general! I didn't allow anyone to lay a finger on her, just like you commanded! Not much to enjoy there though, just bones and a mop of hair!" The procurator smiles proudly, and the general winces. The atrocities performed by soldiers disgust him. He prefers to ignore the fact that he is especially bothered by it here, in Britannia, due his own heritage. His mother was a Celt, thus the blue eyes and the long nose. He is the general of Roman legions, he was just unfortunate enough to be born of a barbarian mother.

The procurator rushes out of the tent forgetting his goodbyes, and the general heavily sits in his chair behind his escritoire. He never enjoyed interrogations but he is good at it. People's will is easy to break, as little pleasure as it gives him. She is probably pathetic, and he winces in irritation. Her forces are destroyed, she is allegedly ill, and there is no hope for her. He is not looking forward to this conversation.

Two soldiers come in, leading a woman between them, her hands tied in front of her. The procurator follows. He shoves the woman inside, although she is walking herself, and she stumbles. Her hair, indeed of the brightest golden copper, fall over her face.

"Kneel, witch, you are in front of a Roman general!" The procurator is unnecessary loud, and the general considers interfering. Surely, there is no need to push her anymore.

The general sees as the woman straightens her back and throws her locks behind the shoulders with a forceful shake of her head. A pair of slanted green eyes meet his, and he has to stop from shrinking away from her. He is himself surprised at his moment of weakness. The eyes are the strangest of colour, like an owl's or falcon's, burning, proud. She is immensely short, probably not more than sixty peses. Skinny, frail, the typical Celtic pale skin, bright orange freckles on her nose. She has a regal proud posture, but she is no Queen.

"Leave us." The general gestures the soldiers to follow the round procurator. She has nowhere to run, there are guards outside, and they are in the middle of a Roman camp. And also, he is tired of the procurator's smug grin.

They are left alone, and he studies the woman. She is standing straight, but her shoulders are shaking.

"What is your name, child?" She is no older than twenty. Already of marriage age in Rome, she seems almost an infant for him now. He is tired of war. She lifts her chin higher and gives him a glare. He cannot stop staring in her eyes. Something is different. And then he understands, there is no hatred in them. She is afraid, but she does not loath him. "Do you speak Roman?" She is still silent, and he rubs his temple.

"There is no need pretending in front of me, child. I know you are no Queen." She jerks. So she understands. "They say Queen of Iceni is seven peses high and can chop a man in half with her sword."

"People tend to exaggerate." She has a melodic voice and almost no accent. He smirks.

"They also say she has a harsh voice and piercing glare. And she bore two daughters. You do not possess a body of a mother, child." He rises and walks around his desk. She starts shaking harder, but her glare is indeed piercing. He picks up his pugio and steps towards her. She closes her eyes. She is no doubt expecting torture and rape to start any moment. He does not blame her. The ropes around her wrists are twisted so many times that he wonders what the procurator thought she would do. The crown of her head hardly reaches the general's clavicles. He picks up her hands and cuts the ropes. The slender arms fall along her body limp. She hisses and opens her eyes. Her freckled nose is right under his stare, and he smirks again. And then he picks up her hands again, and the smile drops. The wrists are bruised, and blood is seeping through cuts from the rope. The skin like hers gets wounded from the slightest push, the ropes have almost cut into her ligaments. He gently rubs intact skin, returning the blood circulation into them. She is staring at him. And then he flips her palms to open them.

"There are not the hands of a swordwoman, child. These are hands of a druid." She jolts and tries to pull her hands out. He lets go. "The colouration from the herbs, the ink stains, you are a person of medicine." He returns at his desk and sits. "Is your Queen indeed ill? Were you treating her when the clueless procurator stomped into your camp? And this," the general picks up the torc and dangles it on his finger, "Putting this on was a noble sacrifice, child. Have you saved her? Did she escape?" She is still staring at him, doubt splashing in her eyes. "You do not know… I see. Do you know what my soldiers would have done to you had I not specifically commanded not to touch local women?" She gulps and grows even paler. "They do not care whether you are attractive or.. this," he gestures all over her, and her lashes flutter. "You are no person for them, just a piece of pagan meat. If you fight, they will keep you alive longer. For fun." There is feverish blush on her cheekbones now, and he realises she is staring on his dagger on the table. Killing herself to avoid being captured would be a common practice among Celtic women. Fate worse than death indeed. This one probably did not follow through to gain her Queen more time.

"I will give it to you. The clean death." She lifts her burning eyes at him. "I give you my word. Tell me where your Queen went and I will kill you myself." She ponders it for a few instants.

"Give me the dagger, and I give you my word I will tell you where I think they went."

"And I am supposed to trust you?" He cocks a brow.

"And I you?" She forgets herself and answers no less sarcastically. There is an unusual lilt to her voice, and he chuckles.

"I am giving you a word of a Roman general."

"And I am giving you a word of a simple Iceni woman." She is holding his stare but he can see that her knees are weak. She twitches her fingers, the feeling returning into her hands is probably excruciatingly painful. There are no callouses on her palms, she is not used to war. And he is tired of it.

"Sit, child, it is easier to talk when you do not have to keep your legs from giving in." She is giving him a cautious stare, and he gestures on a chair behind her. She looks around and carefully approaches it. Her movements are graceful, and he notices that she is barefoot. The feet are tiny and narrow. The dirty, swamp green dress reaches her ankles, and he wonders what her knees look like. She heavily sit in the chair and folds her hands on her knees. "What is your name?"

"People call me Wren."

"A name of a bird?" He smiles. "Is that those small ones, round, with turned up tails?" She lifts her brows, and he gets up and comes up to her. He is looming over her, he specifically offered her to sit to gain this advantages, and she predictably shrinks in the chair. He picks her face up by the chin and makes her look at him. The strange red lips start to shake. The Celtic women often have these bright, as of painted red lips on their pale faces, not pink, red. Her mouth is wide, excessively curved upper lip. She must be unattractive even for her own people. He wonders what her lips taste like.

"Tell me, little bird, how long do you think I will have enough patience before I throw you to my soldiers? Another minute? Maybe two? This is your last chance. Tell me where they went, and I will even let you choose your death. I am sure your people also have a concept of honourable death." She gulps, her eyes wide open, and they fill with tears. The irises are of the same colour like the eyes of an owl, honey and amber. The tears spill and run down her face and into her flaming hair. It is indeed a mane of curls, and he lowers his face. He presses his lips to hers, and she gasps. The strange slanted eyes close and to his shock she moves closer to him too. Her lips do not move, he can guess she has never been kissed before. He was planning to move away right away, but without his will his hands lie on the delicate shoulders, and he pulls her closer. She makes a soft moan like sound and one of her hands suddenly snakes around his neck.

The second one jerks a plumata from the quiver on his belt, and she pushes away from him. She presses it into her throat, but he is too fast. He topples her on the floor, and after a short struggle he jerks the weapon out of her hands. She emits a desperate enraged cry, and a flood of no doubt dirtiest of obscenities in her tongue is spit into his face. He throws the plumata in the furthest corner and catches her wrists. She is kicking, trying to scratch him, and is yelling in several languages. Her Latin is impeccable, including the swearings. He squeezes her bruised wrists, but she is so enraged that she does not notice. She is rather inventive in her curses, and he learns a lot new about himself and his mother. As well as some crucial parts of his anatomy.

She is raging for a while, trying to kick him below his waist, and he understands she is trying to make him lose control and kill her. He is blocking her attacks, waiting for her to exhaust herself, surely there is not much strength left in her. It takes a while though, he is surprise at her resilience and determination. He is pressing her body into the floor, his legs controlling her lower limbs, her wrists grasped in his hands, and she finally slows down. Her chest is heaving, angry tears run down flushed cheeks, and she is beautiful.

"Are you done, little bird?" She is glaring at him. Apparently, she decided to give him a silent treatment now. Even better, he has a lot to say.

"This is how we are going to proceed, little bird. You will stop fighting me and will tell me where your Queen went. And then you will have some wine, and we will talk."

"We have nothing to talk about." She hisses through her teeth.

"Do we?" He is studying her face. "How about this topic for a conversation?" He catches her mouth again, now knowing her fresh taste and intoxicating smell, and she squeaks. He is still holding her wrists tight and keeps his eyes open. She closes hers. Her lips are soft and surprisingly warm. She is also dusty. Before all thoughts vacate his head, he thinks how much pleasure it will be to give her a bath. She pulls her hands out of his but not very persistently, as if planning to wrap her arms around his neck, but he knows better with her now. He tears his mouth from her and looks into her giant eyes.

"The war is over, little bird. Your land is now a colonia, roads will be built, cities founded, and all for the glory of the Emperor. And now it is time to make new citizens for Caesar." As if it was possible her eyes widen even more. "As long as you do not oppose Rome openly, you can continue your practices and freely hug your trees or sing with your birds, or whatever it is that you do in your groves. I do not mind my wife to have her own interests."

"Wife?!" Her jaw slacks, and he guffaws.

"It speaks!"

She tries to kick him again, but he is on guard. He shifts his leg and pressed her to the floor even more deftly. He wants to release her wrists, his own palms are coloured in her blood, it pains him to hurt her, but he still cannot trust her. She needs more convincing.

"Every aristocrat will receive a place in Viroconium. Rome does not mind allowing its coloniae have their own government as long as the taxes are paid." She is glaring at him, and he quickly pecks her lips. Quickly, as he thinks now that she learnt to recognise an upcoming kiss she might bite him. "Look, little bird, you have two choices now. Refuse me, and I will give you to my soldiers," he will not. He will lead her out of the camp and will let her go like the last coward and fool that he is. Perhaps, Druids do possess some magic. "Or you agree to marry me, we take a nice long hot bath, and you stay in my tent under my protection until the order from the Governor comes to relocate to Viroconium."

She is studying his face, and he is smiling to her blissfully. He is completely nonchalant and mentally thanks the Gods for the muscle cuirass. She cannot feel his frantically beating heart through the breastplate.

She twitches her delicate nose and sighs.

"I will not tell you where the Queen went. But a bath sounds rather nice, Roman."

He wakes up next morning, his bed empty. There are spots of her virginal blood on the covers, and his dagger is missing. Five months later she finds him in Viroconium, carrying his unborn son under her heart. She is wrapped in a fur cloak and looks very peevish. He gently presses her into him, and she nuzzles his neck.

"I will still be allowed to practice my medicine, and I will come and go whenever I want."

"You can practice your medicine, and you will never go anywhere again."

"Agreed, Roman."


	36. An actual AN

**Just a short note regarding this fic:**

Chapter 6 "Camping" 

turned into the series involving Wrennie Leary and Dr. John Crispin Thorington. By now it includes "Touch the Nerve," "Strike the Cord," "Cut Through the Heart," and "Heal All Wounds" (the last one will be updated at some point soon). Assorted one-shots with the same characters are in "Medical Cabinet."

Chapter 15 and 16 "Blind Date and Carnival"

became "Blind Carnival" and is updated from time to time. It's a relaxed fic, I tend to go back to it when I am in an especially giddy mood.

Chapter 35 "Love and Hammer"

became "Stop, Hammer Time!" (complete) and now has a sequel "Ice Ice Baby," which is a crossover as well, there is Loki of Asgard in it. Yum.

**Questions and prompts are highly appreciated! :D**


	37. Guess Who?

**A/N: And here comes another test drive of an idea! Barmy as ever :) It is planned as a three-chapter fic in my head: this one, plus one for Wren, one for Thorin, and an epilogue. What do you think, my lovelies? **

**I understand that this one might have a limited audience! Don't feel you are obliged to understand what all ****this ****mental rattling is all about :D**

The King's lips are sliding down the neck of his wife, he is pulling at the low cut of her undertunic, the bodice of her velvet dress already unlaced and pooling around her waist. She is arching her back, dropping her head back, allowing him better access to the pale skin of her cleavage. His lips find the swell of her small breasts, and she moans throatily.

"Haban… Zundush… My glorious, gentle Wren..." He is supporting her under her shoulder blades, not allowing her to fall back, lifting her limp upper body to his greedy lips. She treads her fingers into his ebony mane, argent strands glistening in the rays of the setting sun.

"Oh Thorin..." She breathes out and twists, lunging up and catching his mouth. Hands roam bodies, lips dance, and neither of them hears a strange humming noise at the background. It becomes louder, as if the second layer of the same noise covers the first one. The King pushes his wife on the blanket stretched on the ground, blindly shoving the picnic basket away, bottles of wine and apples rolling out of it, when a delicate cough makes him jerk his head and put his palm on the hilt of his sword carelessly thrown on the grass near him.

"I am so sorry to bother the two of you, but honestly how do you breathe doing this? Through your ears?" The King shields his wife, who is hurried pulling up the bodice of her dress, and stares at the men in front of him. They are both quite obviously of Men, one very tall, astonishingly slender, in a strange garb with stripes going along his lanky body, and the strangest hair the king has ever seen in his life. It sticks up and falls ahead like the feathers of the cardinal bird. The one who spoke is only slightly shorter, wearing a jacket and a pair of very narrow trousers, and a strange cravat that looks like a butterfly. Thorin slowly pulls the sword towards him, rising without tearing his eyes from the strangers.

"Your majesty," the gaunt one lifts his hands in a universal gesture of surrender, "We came in peace. We are here to..." He looks at the second one obviously asking for support.

"We came to ask for help. You see, there is a time paradox..."

"It's a timey wimey thing, hard to explain, but you two can help us," the lanky one interferes.

"You should stop interrupting me!" The butterfly cravat one turns to him. "We need to establish protocol between us. Let me explain to them, I am quite obviously better at this."

"What? You? Which one of us had an encounter with the Great Intelligence and did not manage to convince them to surrender? Literally, pure intelligence, and you did not manage to explain to them the motivation of your actions!"

"Which one of us married Queen Elizabeth the First thinking she was a zygon?"

While they are arguing, Thorin pulls out his sword out of the scabbard and slowly moves the Queen behind his back.

"My lord, they do not look very hostile," the Queen whispers, "Rather muddled in my opinion, but hardly dangerous." The King throws a look at her over her shoulder, quite obviously with male superiority.

"Let me see to this, kurdu." She snorts and steps from around him.

"Kind sirs, if you could stop bickering…" The strange men continue their exchange. "Honestly, you are worse than my children... Attention!" She is at least a foot shorter than both of them, but the fists pressed into her hips and the firm tone make them both grow silent and stare at her.

"Perhaps I should speak, I have experience with royalty," says the taller one with his hair sticking up in an astonishing disarray.

"First hand experience," the second one mumbles under his breath and receives a disdainful stare from the tall one.

"Your majesty," the striped one steps forward and stretches his hand. The King Under the Mountain shifts towards them, but the Queen throws him a warning stare over her shoulder and puts her fingers on his palm. "Your majesty, my name is the Doctor, I am a time traveller..."

"Are we supposed to tell it to them straightforward though?" The second one flails his arms in the air in exasperation, "You will frighten them."

"Not Queen Zundushinh," the one calling himself the Doctor murmured thoughtfully, his brown eyes locked with the green slanted ones of the Queen of Erebor. He presses her knuckles to his lips, and she smiles to him and shakes her head.

"You should release my hand, kind sir, before my husband chops yours off." The tall man steps back releasing her hand, in a slow motion, the tips of his fingers brushing her palm. "You were saying..."

"My name is the Doctor, and this is also the Doctor, which does not matter..."

"I do matter!" The second one interrupts and steps ahead with a stubborn pout, but then he catches the eyes of the Queen and smiles to the small woman.

"Of course you do, kind sir," the Queen's tone is mollifying, and he prims up. "Are you also a time traveller?"

"The one and only. Well, technically the one and the eleventh, but that is the question of perception. Considering he kept the face twice, and there is the one that didn't count before, but counts now..."

"I have to agree with you, kurdu, they are clearly muddled," the King's sarcastic tone makes the shorter man stop on his tracks, trailing away his mad rambling. The Queen turns and gives her husband a soft smile. _Let me decide myself, I am clearly a better judge of character, _her eyes say. The twitch of his brow is a clear answer for her. _Help yourself. _

The taller Doctor rolls his eyes, "That is why I wanted to do the talking. Your majesty," he addresses Thorin and bows slightly, "the Doctor, at your service." Thorin slightly nods in return.

"Thorin, son of Thrain, at yours." The King looks completely relaxed, leaning on his sword, but the Queen can see that he is ready to pounce at the men in front of him at any instant necessary. He is just allowing her to have her fun.

"And this is my associate, the Doctor. A mere coincidence..." The man with strange hair clears his throat and looks at the Queen again. "We are time travellers, and we came here for help." She tilts her head and looks at him attentively.

"You are not lying," her voice is soft, and he slightly nods.

"The famous intuition of Thorin's Wren..." He murmurs and smiles to her widely. "We are going to need it! We have a universe to save and a marriage to arrange, we will need your amazing talents, my lady." She looks at him in merry disbelief.

"Tell her about the intertwining timelines, I like that bit." The second Doctor chimes in.

"My lady, you and your husband are a fixed point in space and time, meaning no matter how circumstances change and no matter how the world around us fluctuates, you two always have to end up together, the two of you are like… the Earth and the Sun, like the day and the night, you are always supposed to meet and couple with each other..." He gestures madly in the air intertwining his long fingers.

"I beg your pardon?" A low growl of the King makes the lanky Doctor freeze with his mouth half open. The King is clenching the hilt of his Elven blade.

"Oh great," the second Doctor quips, "You made him angry. We do not want him angry, we need them to cooperate. Let me try," he steps ahead and puts his hands up splaying his fingers.

"Here we go, the flailing," the first Doctor snorts.

"The two of you are each other's destiny. You are to be together, your shared fate goes through the fabric of the universe, through times and space, like a thread through real fabric, holding it together." His eyes are shiny, and he wiggles his fingers. "If a threat snaps, the fabric will start falling apart. And here you are, at the very beginning of your path, the very first Wren and Thorin, with all your regenerations, so to speak, ahead of you, and you need to help us, because something went wrong, and your thread is lost, and from this it is..."

"Like a ladder in silk," the Queen finishes, her eyes widened, and he grins to her.

"Yowzah!" They are looking at each other smiling. "Oh glorious Wren! I would kiss you right now but it won't agree with your husband, I suppose. He'll chop off my head, and I like my head."

"Do you understand any of that, zundush?" The King's tone is apprehensive, he is reaching the limit of his patience.

She turns to him and explains in soft, pacifying tone, "They claim that the destiny of the world depends on our love, my lord."

The King snorts and answers in a derisive tone, although there is underlying tenderness in his tone, "Then the world is safe. Was there any particular reason these wizards had to interrupt our picnic?"

She chuckles and turns to the Doctor in a strange cravat, "Tell me about the ladder."

"Some time in the far away future in a completely different land the two of you didn't... happen. You both lived and your paths crossed, but something went wrong, and now the fabric of reality is getting torn apart. We cannot interfere because the two of you are the fixed point in time, meaning nothing can be altered, but on the other hand, it has to be corrected. So we thought that the two of you actually could."

"I think I have had enough of this mad rattling. And it is time to return to the Mountain, my lady." The King picks up his doublet from the ground and peevishly asks his wife, "Do you need me to help you with the lacing, my heart?" A doubt is written on the face of the Queen, and she looks at the taller Doctor.

"You will have to provide us with a valid argument, kind sirs. Perhaps a proof or a prophecy of sorts."

"Zundush, they have obviously had too much ale..." The King's grouchy remark is cut short by the second Doctor rising his hand with a strange metal rod with a green light glowing in its end, and a strange screeching noise erupts from it. And then the King and his small wife make a few frightened steps back when a strange wooden box appears in front of them, bright blue, with notices in an unknown language and a small window in its front door.

"The TARDIS," the shorter Doctor announces, as if introducing a very important guest.

"Time and Relative Dimension in Space," the tall Doctor adds with warmth in his tone. "A time machine." The Queen steps ahead first, but her husband grabs her arm.

"Zundush..."

"It is harmless, my King," the redhead's tone is soft and distant. "It is old, and powerful, and a bit of a flirt, is she not?" She touches the wood of the door and smiles.

The tall Doctor snaps his fingers, and the door opens.

"Oh, here comes the line! I love the line!" The cravat Doctor is clenching his fists in anticipation like an overexcited toddler. The Queen peeks in and gasps.

"It is bigger on the inside!" The butterfly cravat Doctor mouths with her words. Her tone is exuberant, and he giggles.

"Yes!"

The King rushes to his wife, but stops near her staring inside the blue box.

"And to think of it, it looked like an outhouse..." The King murmurs awed.

"Oi!" Both Doctors shout at the same time.

"Show some respect!" The one with mad hair says. The King tears his eyes from inside the box and points on the metal stick in the shorter Doctor's hand.

"Is that your magic staff?"

"What, this?" The man in the strange cravat exclaims, "No! It is a sonic screwdriver! It is not a weapon!"

The second Doctor nods, "Doesn't kill, doesn't wound, doesn't maim. But I'll tell you what it does do. It is very good at opening doors. And getting us where we need to go. Shall we, your majesties?" He gestures, inviting them to go into the box.

"You want us to go with you two?" The King looks at them in disbelief. "Why in the Durin's name would you think we would agree?"

"Because we have already convinced your wife, your majesty, and that pretty much decides it." The shorter Doctor says and smiles. The King looks at his Queen and puffs air in indignation. She is giving him a shy smile.

"Would you excuse us?" She grabs his sleeve and pulls him aside. There is an agitated whispered dialogue between them, she is quite obviously mollifying, he is huffing and puffing, but he is quite obviously losing this battle.

"Alright!" He barks dropping his arms along his body in surrender. She squeals and throws her arms around his neck. She is peppering small kisses on his face, and he pretends to dislike it.

She rushes to the blue box, practically bobbing on her heels. "So, kind sirs, where to?"

"Well, your majesty, the place is called London, and the years is 2014 A.D." The lanky Doctor announced, and the Queen steps in.

"What in the Durin's name is A.D.?" The King grumbles and picks up his cloak from the ground, heading inside the box as well.

"Oh apple," the taller Doctor sinks his teeth in a fruit and follows the royal couple.

"Apple's rubbish. I hate apples," the other one grouchs, following them, "Fish fingers on the other hand..."

The door closes behind them, and with a strange whirring noise the blue box disappears in thin air.


	38. Watch

**A/N: I have no bloody clue what that is! I found it in some long forgotten folder and don't know what to make of it... What was I thinking when writing it? Don't ask me! It was one of the first modern AUs, before Dr. John Crispin Thorington and etc., and where I was going with that is a mystery to forever stay unsolved!**

Has it actually been ten years? Blimey. It has, and here is the proof for you. The watch is rested on the velvet of a case, Patek Philippe Calatrava, white gold, blue crocodile bracelet. And a card with her decisive elegant writing. _Because you asked about the back lid. _And on the other side: _Happy tenth anniversary of our cooperation! So that you are never late again :) W. _Only she could put a smiley face on a Smythson card. You pick up the watch and look at the back. You see the mechanism. You chuckle, unlike her you know nothing of the expensive watch. You expected an engraving. Then you see on the back of the bracelet written in a golden ink it says _Peterson and Leary, 10 years of bickering partnership._

You have worked together for ten years. And for ten years you have been in love with your partner like an eighth grader. First she was married, then she was heartbroken, then she was divorced. The joke became old, and you just got used to being dragged along through her turbulent life. Through a stormy romance with an Italian prince. Through that guy who turned out to be a former addict. Through her parents' funeral. Through her brother's weddings. Through laughing, crying, hospitalization and a cancer scare. You are always here, you are just a call away. You flew through three states to pick her up when she broke her leg skiing with some tosser in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. He didn't even drive her to the hospital.

You cried in her arms when your grandfather died. You got drunk after Janine dumped you and were probably hitting on her. You woke up in her bed, she brought you breakfast and running her hand through your hair she was smiling to you. Then she handed you a glass and two white pills and said, "We will never talk about it." She sat in the waiting room with you for five nights when your sister's car got rammed by a drunk truck driver.

You love the watch and never take it off. You replace the bracelet, take the watch for cleaning to the old Italian watchmaker in downtown that she suggested, and in two years you get used to the weight on your wrist. And then it gets lost. You are walking through the same patch of beach for the tenth time but it's not here. You were definitely sitting here, under this exact palm tree, you were playing with the empty beer bottle. Here are your footprints, but no watch. The night is warm, the huge stars are above your head, and you just don't understand. "Peterson, what are you doing there?" She is calling from the illuminated path, and you curse under your breath. Of course she just needed to show up now. "Nothing, just getting some fresh air." The white spot of her dress is bobbing as she is bouncing down the steps. No, don't come here… Oh, bugger.

The hair is pinned up, elegant long neck bare, thin gauzy dress hugging the waist, wide skirts flowing around the limber legs. A vision in white… "What are you doing in the dark?" She takes off the shoes and walks to you.

"I lost my watch," you confess.

"What? Here?"

"I was sitting and playing with the bracelet, and I guess it got unfastened and slipped off." You are looking together for another fifteen minutes. It is not here. You are livid. "It doesn't make any sense. I was sitting right here! I didn't move anywhere! I noticed just a few steps away..." You are yelling and kick the sand.

"Peterson..." You continue railing. "Doug..." Her tone is soft and she puts her small palm on your upper arm. "Just let it go. Sometimes things just leave us."

"No," you are shaking from fury, not even understanding what drives you so mad. "I want my watch, I love my watch. You gave it to me!"

"I remember," she smiles, but you just don't want to calm down.

"I want it back! Fuck it! Just fuck it!" You never swear in front of her. Or any woman for that matter.

"Common, let's go back." You jerk your arm out of her gentle hands.

"I'll look some more."

"Peterson, there is no point..."

"Don't tell me this! Just don't say it! Can I have at least some control over my life? Can things just stop..." You are not even sure what you are trying to say. "Can they just stop leaving?!"

"Doug..." She tries to sound pacifying but it seems to push you over the edge.

"I want it back!" You are yelling at her. "I want the stability, don't you understand? I want things to stay where they are. The watch, the firm, you, I want everything to at least stay put! I'm not asking for anything else, do you hear me?! Have I ever asked for more? No! I shut up and take what I'm given! Just stop taking things away from me!" The outburst subsides as quickly as it started, and you are breathing heavily. She is standing in front of you, and you suddenly think that it was probably terrifying. You are a big bloke. You take a step back and sink on the sand.

She doesn't move and is probably chewing on her bottom lip. She always bites her bottom lip when upset or confused.

You mumble, "I had a chat with Thorington from the Erebor Inc." She sighs and comes closer. Then she slowly sits on the sand near you and puts her hand on your shoulder.

"I would never leave to a different firm unless you decided to break up with me."

"They are good architects."

"You are a good architect." You turn and look at her.

"You like me because I'm a good architect. There aren't enough good architects in your life." She chuckles.

"You are such a duffus."

"It's classics."

"Do you fancy yourself a Han?"

"I am Han."

"What's wrong, Doug?" She rarely calls you Doug. You don't like the days when she calls you Doug.

"Thorington said you looked over the contract."

"I didn't. I said no from the start. He was just reeling you up."

"It worked." You feel ashamed. You trusted the sleaze bag over your best friend and yelled at her. You lower your head and swallow with difficulty. "I am sorry."

"It's OK." She puts her head on your shoulder, and you just sit quietly for a few minutes. "I am sorry about the watch." You shake your head.

"I don't want to talk about it. I just don't get it, you see?" She hums softly.

"Sometimes things just leave us," she repeats.

"Well, I don't want them to."

"Sometimes there is nothing you can do."

"I don't accept that." She lifts her head and looks at you.

"What was it about me taking things away from you?"

"What?" You frown at her. What is she about?

"You said to stop taking things away from you. Something about not even asking for more." Bloody fuck, what was that anyways? You are not even drunk.

"I am sorry, I just went really bonkers. Too much fresh air," you are attempting to joke but choke on your fake cheerful tone under her serious stare.

"Do you feel like I am holding you back? Is it about the Lonely Mountain Spa project?" Leave it to her to hear business concerns in your girly emotional outburst!

"No, of course not. Listen I'm just barmy tonight, it was a long month," she is still frowning. "You were completely right about the Spa, we wouldn't have managed it. Not with other projects."

She nods and puts her head back on your shoulder. OK, you talked your way out of another potential difficult conversation. Though, she probably wouldn't go there herself. Sometimes you wonder if it even upsets her that you have been pining over her for twelve years. She seems so nonchalant about it.

She chuckles. "That would be a great time for a make-up sex." You freeze and ask yourself if you heard right. She lifts her face and then her eyes widen.

"Hey, it was just a joke. Peterson?" You suddenly feel that you most definitely hate her sometimes. The bottled up frustration explodes into your face, and you jump up on your feet.

"You know what? It's just not funny anymore. After so many years you could find a different topic for your stupid jokes." You just called her stupid. Oh sod it all anyways!

"What?" She is still sitting and looking up at you in shock.

"I mean I'm the first person to laugh at it sometimes but just stop rubbing it into my face. At least not today! I'm having a very bad day!" You are yelling again.

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't dangle it in front of my nose! Just not today, OK?" And as if it justifies or explains anything, you yell, "I lost my watch!"

"I gave it to you..." She says slowly, and you clench your fists. "I don't understand..." She is looking at you, her green eyes wide open, and for a second you believe her. Of course she doesn't understand, she probably thinks you have been just chummy all these years, just mates, no more… And then you see red again, women are supposed to know this stuff.

"OK, listen. I am going to be direct with you today, sod it all, sod it all, you just..." You are hardly coherent, but... Sod. It. All. "I am fine with it, honestly, most of the time. I mean finding you shagging in the office with that wanker wasn't very rad, but OK, I got over it..." You just said "wanker" to her. Sod it all. "But sometimes you just behave like a bitch. Honestly. I will probably regret saying it tomorrow, but Wren, you are such a bitch sometimes!" You are standing over her breathing heavily, and then you realize what you just did. What you just said. And that she is crying. Tears silently run down her face, her bottom lip is trembling, and now you definitely realized what you did. You hurt your best friend.

You fall on the knees in front of her, "Oh bollocks, Wren, I am so sorry, I didn't mean it..."

"You did," her tone is almost surprised. "All you said today, you meant it all…"

"I didn't! I mean it's my fault, has always been my fault, I should have done something about it instead of moping around like a moron, but it just became a habit, you know, it is comfortable and not scary… Wren, I am sorry, I'm having a midlife crisis here, or something..."

"That is one fucking way of looking at it," she has never sworn in front of you before. She gets up and looks at you downwards. Her small fists are clenched on the sides of her body. "I would say this is more you being the biggest cunt I've met in my life." That feels like she hit you. Probably a punch to the nose would have been less painful. You deserve it.

"Wren, I..."

"You honestly could have found a better way of telling me that all these years I thought you'd been my best friend you just wanted to knob me." Her tone is venomous, and her eyes are burning.

"That's not… That's not what I meant at all. Wren, are you mad? I've been in love with you for twelve years!" It's easy to say. It takes you three seconds after you blurted it out to realize that you have pronounced these words for the first time in your life. You are in love with Wren Leary.

That's when she slaps you. "Don't you dare saying these words! Not now! Not to me! Not to cover up your stupid bitch fit and the slip of your sodding tongue."

She turns on her heels and rushes back to the hotel. You jump up on your feet and grab her hand. She jerks it out and hisses.

"Wren, please, it's true, I have… All this time..."

"You are a wanker!" She yells into your face. "That's not love, that's not how people love! You accept it, you take in the pain, and you fight for it. You stayed by my side all these years, through tossers and wankers I shagged, through everything, like a coward, because it was comfortable, because it was safe! And never for once you thought I might have wanted it too… You didn't even ask! You just hung around!"

"Wren!" You are panicking, "Do you?.. Did you?..."

"Not anymore! Not like that! Oh you wanker!" She actually punches you in the chest with a fist. "God, I hate you so much right now! You just had to arse it all up! Be a man for once, grow a pair, but no, you just had to throw a benny! Don't you dare saying these words to me! This is not love! This is pathetic!" She punches you again. "Yes, I hoped for it, and no, I didn't know you felt something! You were a lying, pretending cunt all these years, and I hoped, and I waited, and then I stopped! Because I don't need a man who is too much of a coward to fight for me!"

She stomps back to the hotel. When you return to your rooms, the desk informs you she has checked out half an hour ago. You get her resignation in email twenty three minutes later. She marries Thorington two months later. They have triplets nine months after the wedding, and then another child. You heard it's a girl.


	39. Spring Break

**A/N#1: This one is inspired by ****Wynni ****and also is a small bow to ****LABrown16**** ;) **

**Wynni**** can be considered my collaborator on this. The facts and more importantly the Southern accent are all her! **

**And ****RagdollPrincess****, a small air kiss for you too, love, in the first paragraph ;)**

**A/N#2: That odd fic with Doug Peterson (seriously, I have very little memories of where I was going with it!) was probably an attempt to invent a love triangle for Wren and Thorin, and yeah, the guy turned out pathetic. I think I did better with Amrod/Auggie! Yum :D **

**There was the second, mirror fic to it of how architect John (no wuss, unlike Doug, obviously) does his "veni, vidi, vici" and manages to marry Wren in two months after she breaks up with Doug. There is half of it written... Do you want me to finish it? ;)**

The boy is alright, the boy is alright, that is the only thought thrashing in John's head. Killian is bandaged, half of his face is a bloody mess, but he is grinning widely. Deadre is stoically ignoring the poor state her younger son is in, the only thing Phil is now interested in is the dark haired, curvaceous nurse they found playing tonsil hockey with Killian on his hospital bed. The view of the two of them added to the overall relief and, let's be honest, irritation of his mother, uncle and older brother. Perhaps, sixteen hour flight and an hour of driving on the wrong side of the bloody road allowed the irritation to overpower some familial feelings for then just a wee bit.

Leaving Killian in the skillful hands of the nurse, all three of them plod to the hotel, and after a quick scorching shower John falls in the bed in the buff and buries his head between hotel pillows. He is an insomniac even in his own bed, in the carefully selected pillows and Egyptian cotton bedding. What to say of this white hotel monstrosity... He begs the brain to turn off but... no jam. The events of the last twenty four hours whirl in his head. Killian on his spring break ramming a wall with his Jag, frantic search for tickets, Deadre pale, her eyes dry and burning in the airport, Phil quiet for the first time in his life… John presses harder into the pillow, but he is obviously not sleeping tonight. He groans and makes a deal with himself. If he is not asleep in two hours, he will go to the pool. He isn't, and he doubles his usual amount of laps, all his muscles ache, but the mind doesn't stop railing.

The next morning he drags his poor arse into the hotel restaurant where Phil and Dea, well-rested and happy as a pair of bloody larks, since Killian is obviously out of danger, are happily chewing their toasts. John groans, he knows what's coming. Both Dea and Phil are mental tourists, they need to see everything! He tries to blame work, invent contracts waiting for him in his room, a bloody phone conference, but nothing helps. He receives a double treatment of blue puppy eyes, and he gives in. And the barmy rat race starts. Estuarium, with its exhibits of the marine habitats of the Delta, the Fort, a ferry ride, and then Camper Park, and at this stage John thinks he would drive his own Jag into the nearest lorry.

The only thing, and he would never confess it under the most painful of tortures, that he doesn't condemn is the Lighthouse Bakery. Even the most posh of his acquaintances would not complain about their scrumptious concoctions. He sinks his teeth in their sausage waffle, and yes, it is a real thing, "Only on Fridays" the girl behind the counter announces with a smile, and he closes his eyes in pleasure. The second half of the day is spent in the Sea Lab, and he is so muddled and chuffed after the lunch in the bakery that he stops struggling. After all he has one day here, his return flight is booked for tomorrow morning.

For dinner Phil drags them to the "ace place" Killian told him about. By then John's mind is knackered, and he is flagging. The problem is that he is familiar with the symptoms. Even if he lies down right now, he won't sleep. In the last twenty something years he doesn't remember falling asleep without a pill. But pills mess with his mind, and the Stock doesn't like dimwits.

All through dinner Phil reminisces about the last year's spring break bender, and Dea is listening to him condescendingly. John is becoming increasingly spun out. He had the same youth, but tonight everything seems to irritate him. Dea encouraging her sons behave like bloody royalty, one of them on a hospital bed at the moment after conking out his F-Type, and the second one is trying to chat up their waitress!

At the beginning of their dinner, and that is the chaviest place he has been seen in for the last fifteen years, but he feels migraine coming on, and he doesn't care anymore, the little redhead meets them by the door and smiling widely drawls, "Well hey there, shug? How've you been? C'mon in here, we've a table for you right by the tank, if'n you want." Dea gives her one of her snake smiles, which doesn't seem to dischuff the girl in the leastest. After suggesting lobster tails, at least that's what he thinks she meant by "Welcome to Barnacle Bills! I'm Wren. Would y'all like to try some of our infamous sauteed lobster tails? Everybody loves it that's tried it. Be a mighty fine memory to take back home with you. Might even bring you back to visit us for seconds, " she disappears into the depth of the kitchen, and he hears loud laughter from there. A face of another waitress peeks out, they obviously became the spectacle of the evening. Well, he is not a spotty teenager, the opinion of others stopped bothering him long ago.

Phil is really trying. He goes for the same moves John would have gone for himself. A smile, a lingering look, irresistible for a Septic girl posh accent. John hardly had a look at her, he is fighting rising headache, but she is a ginger, and it is always a yes in Phil's books. They are always gingers with him. At some point the girl laughs softly and smacks his shoulder, "Oh sugar, you are sweet as pie, but no. On the clock, and I ain't interested." He catches her fingers and gives her his best puppy eyes. And then she narrows her eyes, and her tone is firm, "Darlin', what part of 'no' do you not understand? You're cute'n all, priceless accent, honey, but I ain't interested. A woman needs more'n a pretty pair of eyes and wide shoulders. She needs a man with substance: brains and gumption." And then the friendly smile is back, and she offers, "Why don't you try some of our banana pudding to sweeten the sting, hmm? "

That makes John look at her for the first time. Small, skinny, a mop of ginger curls, down to her jaw, strange slanted eyes, green and sarcastic, and a wide mouth, with bright red lips, the bottom one plump, and he is suddenly hot under his collar. He is not sure what the bleeding hell that is, perhaps the stress over Killian, the lack of sleep, the pills he forgot in his flat when he rushed to the airport, but the girl shifts her green eyes at him, and there is a small smile on her lips, "An' how 'bout you, darlin'? Care to try somethin' sweet? " He feels like a plonker and shakes his head.

"Good lordy, you look plum tuckered out. What, they don't let you sleep over yonder?" He stares at her. "There in Britain, they don't let you sleep? Get your biscuits in bed, already. Mercy!" She pats his shoulder and disappears in the kitchen again. Phil is laughing and then points after her with his fork.

"Fit bird, isn't she?" He shakes his head and smiles smugly. He no doubt is certain where he is spending this night, and suddenly John sees red.

He jumps on his feet and rasps, "Excuse me, I'll go back to hotel. Enjoy your pudding."

"Headache again?" Dea asks concerned, and he nods and storms out of the restaurant. In the doors he bumps into someone, and of course it has to be the redhead.

She throws a concerned look at him, "Sug, is everythin' alright?"

"Lots of work," he doesn't know why he is explaining to a waitress why he is not staying for pudding. A waitress with shapely legs and gorgeous eyes.

"Awww shucks, y'all leavin' so soon? But you ain't even tried dessert, yet. Don't you know life pure'n tee reeks without the sweet things?" She grins to him, and he gives her a plastic smile in return. The head feels heavy and buzzing, and he leaves.

There is no point in going to the hotel, he will only be tossing and turning on the sheets that will feel hot, clammy and scratchy at the same time, he can't go to the pool anymore, all his muscles hurt, and he starts wandering along the beach. After a while it becomes clear he needs to take off his shoes and socks, and his bare feet sink into the sand, a long forgotten feeling, and he suddenly remembers he hasn't had a holiday for twelve years. The last time he's been on a beach was during his own spring break.

He throws his jacket on the sand in a small secluded corner and stretches on his back, looking at the darkening sky. He has seven hours before he needs to go back to his room, pack his belongings, and fly back to London. The sky is softly coloured by the setting sun, and suddenly he feels the presence of another person, and he turns his head. His eyes slide up a pair of slender legs, he will never admit it but he recognized the calves right away, up to the short denim skirt and some tight top. She is looking down at him. There is a box in her hands.

"Hey there, mind if I join you?" Without waiting for his answer she plops on the sand near him, and the floral smell of her perfume tickles his nose. It is definitely lilac, but not suffocating, subtle, like everything about her. The strange face of a wood nymph, unusual features, slender body, not a beauty in the eyes of an average man, for him she is suddenly the most enticing woman he has ever seen.

She opens the box and moves it towards him. "Here, these're my fried clam strips. Cookie makes 'em for me special. They're a little saltier than you're used to, mind, but they'll help you feel better." He is staring at her in confusion. She brushes her fingers on his temple, and his whole body jolts. "I have'm too. The headaches." The tips of her small digits linger on his skin, her lashes flutter, and something is suddenly dodgy in her accent. She is staring in his eyes, seemingly unable to look away, and he sees her lips open slightly.

He snakes his arm around her waist and pulls her down on him. She squeals, and he understands she is balancing the box not to drop her clam strips. A mental thought rushes through his mind. If it works out right now, he will take her with him to London. He'll buy her whole restaurant together with the furniture and the exceptional cook, the lobster tails were brill, and will move it in the basement of his house. He is not leaving her here. Her with her tiny feet, orange curls, laughing mouth, and strange drawling of words. She is stretched on him, and he meets her smiling eyes.

"You are a straightforwards type of guy, aren't you?" The accent is much weaker, and he lifts a brow.

"Not a Bama belle after all?" He drops his voice lower on purpose, and she giggles.

"You just surprised me, I'm usually ace at this." That is an indubitably London accent. Rather posh for that matter. She is smiling mischievously, and he guffaws.

"Let me guess, the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art?" She is still giggling.

"Rose Bruford College of Theatre and Performance," she carefully puts down her box and wiggles, as if looking for a more comfortable position on him. That is utterly distracting. And efficient. She grabs his ears and rubs the helices between her fingers. "I just can't help it, love, you are too fit. I lost my concentration." And she lowers her lips on his. His head is flooded with lilac scent and the fresh, intoxicating taste of her lips. She pushes her fingers into his hair and gently scrapes his scalp.

He strokes her delicate shoulder blades, and they are just as good as he imagined in the restaurant. And maybe even better. They are kissing for a while, and he feels like he is fifteen, it's thrilling, and he can go on for hours. Really not working towards anything more. Not that he would object to anything more. She presses her palms on the sand at two sides of his head and slightly rises above him.

"Are you visiting a nephew for a spring break?" He smiles and nods. Smart girl. On the other hand, if her noggin had turned out completely empty, he'd have done everything precisely the same. That's just it, that's his last station. He's arrived home. "When is your flight?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Bollocks," her lovely accent blooms fully, "I am having a one-off!" Her eyes are twice the normal size, and he guffaws again.

"Do you mind?" She is studying him for a few moments and then decisively shakes her head.

"Not with you. Better than nothing." With that settled, he cups the back of her head and pulls her down to his lips. He momentarily thinks he should tell her they are getting married as soon as they are back in London, but then decides the chatting up part can wait. Her deft little fingers are on the collar of his white button-up, and suddenly she purrs.

"You are so warm," she kisses down his neck, quickly opening the buttons, and then pushes her nose in the hollow between his clavicles. "Blimey, you smell nice..." He guffaws. He is normally an always on top the first time around type of bloke, but he lets her have her fun. She is straddling him and opens the shirt. And then she leans in and claws on his chest and stomach. His whole body jerks, and he squeezes her buttocks.

Suddenly she tears her mouth off his and funnily scrunches her nose, "I'm probably killing the mood here, but tell me I'm not shagging someone's husband or boyfriend here." He smiles, she is planning to shag him, and shakes his head. He never has time for relationships. For her he'll find twenty four hours in a day. She nods as if ticking some box in her head and attacks his mouth again. She is much more purposeful this time, and he doesn't hear his buckle clank. She pulls the end of the belt, and it flies somewhere into the nearest dune.

His trousers are quickly opened, and she pushes her small hand down his pants. He gulps lungful of air, and she purrs again, "Well, I'll be, as they say here, right as rain when we're done." Her sudden Southern accent does wondrous things to his libido, and he slightly sits up and quickly pulls off her top. She giggles again and catches the back of his head. She wraps her arms around his neck, and he pushes a hand under her skirt. She is biting his ear and murmurs into it, "The Durex is in the skirt pocket." With that quickly arranged he slides her knickers to the side, and she sinks on him.

Something explodes in his head, and he bucks his hips forcefully, literally throwing her up in the air, making her slide up on his cock. She squeals and giggles again. He cocks his eyebrow, and she smiles into his eyes, "Giggle is good."

"Giggle is good?" He asks for confirmation, and she suddenly kisses the tip of his nose.

"Giggle is definitely good." He grins to her and slides his palms under her buttocks. She pushes him down back on the ground and starts moving, she is very small, tight, and his head starts spinning. It's been a while, and there is something magical about her greedy movements. She opens his shirt wider, her nails scrape his chest, she stretches on him, without stopping a forceful dominating rhythm of her hips, then her hands slide on his shoulders, along his arms, and she encircles his wrists with her surprisingly strong hands. He lifts his shoulders off the ground to get more of her hot, hungry mouth. And then she suddenly straightens up and plants her feet on the ground. She pushes her hands into her mad curls and bends backwards. There is something endlessly sexy in her slender body arched in a sensual pleasure, her delicate small breasts under a lacy black bra, and he grabs her tiny waist, his hands almost encircling it. She starts moving, an intoxicating twist added into the bouncing of her pelvis, her tight inner walls caressing and squeezing his cock, she is grinding her pelvis into him forcefully, and he is so sodding close all of a sudden! He opens his mouth to warn her, but she suddenly stops and looks at him.

"You need to help me here, love," her tone is mischievous.

"Oh, anything you need," he breathes out, and she smirks. He can see her eyes twinkle in the dim light of the streetlamps reflected in the ocean.

"Lend me a hand," she is grinning widely now, and he brushing the tips of his fingers over her clit. She renews her movements, and he is caressing her in small gentle circles. This and the soft mewling sounds, which she is making and he really doesn't want to miss, distract him enough for her to come first. She arches with a loud cry and falls on him, her hands press into his chest, and she is pretty much sitting in a split. He is softly stroking her knuckles, he is in love with her hands, her head is hanging low, her mad curls in even madder disarray, and then she stirs and looks at him.

"Flip or stay?" Her voice is coarse, and she clears her throat.

"Up to you, love," he is laughing, just because it feels so good, and she grins in return. She bends her legs again, settled more comfortably on him. Surely, all this wiggling is unnecessary, but he is the last person to complain.

She gives him an appraising looks and then orders, "Put your elbows on the ground and give me your hands." He complies, and she intertwines her fingers with his. Using his arms for support, she rises and them sharply plummets down on his cock. He gasps and clenches her fingers.

"Alright, love?" Her tone is impish.

"If I could, I'd giggle right now." She chuckles and repeats the maneuver. And then again. And after that she starts riding him deeply and earnestly until he raspily groans and comes harder than he has ever had in all his bloody life. He drops his arms and since he is still squeezing her fingers, she falls on him. The world is gone for a few seconds, he's breathing heavily and very much hoping he didn't just die of a heart attack. She is splayed on his like a sea star, panting, and he thinks he might be paralyzed neck down from the sheer intensity of sensations. And he is very thirsty. And very happy.

"I'm John..." She laughs weakly.

"Nice to meet you, John, you certainly know how to introduce yourself to a lady." He chuckles.

They are silent for a bit and then she suddenly murmurs, "I love sunsets here, in London I could only see the roofs…" She rubs her nose to his collarbone, and her breath tickles his neck. "At twilight here all the little animals, ghost crabs, fiddler crabs and other little beach combers, come out to feed and go about their day… I'll miss it…"

"How long have you been here?" He brushes the tips of his fingers along her spine, and she shivers.

"Five months..." She giggles. "It was a bet. It's my year off before grad school, and my whole brain just went 'What the hell!'" She waves her hand in the air, and he thinks he is in love. It's a Doctor Who quote.

"Really, Doctor Who?" He asks sarcastically to hide his soppy adoration.

"And yet you know where it is from," she giggles and bites his chest gently. There is nothing to discuss really. He works with Boom and Bust and sells short. He makes his decisions quickly and never looks back. He thinks he made this one when she handed him the box of fried clams.

And then he wakes up with a jerk. She is softly breathing on him, obviously having fallen asleep as well, the pale skin of her glorious back clearly visible in the dark. He starts laughing and shakes her. She blinks frantically.

"What?.. What are you laughing about?"

"I fell asleep!"

"Well, shag tends to do it to you. I'm flagging right away usually, it's actually..." He doesn't let her finish, he pulls her to his lips, and after a thorough snog he peppers her face with smaller kisses. She is grouchy and magnificent. She scrunches her delicate nose and looks at him in confusion.

"Oh, you are amazing!" He carefully takes her off and jumps on his feet. He cleans up quickly and pulls up his trousers. Where is the bloody belt? He looks around and then down at her. She is sitting on his jacket, her top pressed to her breasts. He really needs to have a better look at those. Judging by her face, she is really trying to pull herself together and say goodbye with dignity. He has no time for her emotions. He needs to find the belt, it's Hermes, take her back to the hotel and have his way with her couple more times before they have to catch the plane.

"Where is my belt, Wren?"

She shrugs and twitches her nose. Are her eyes red? He swears under his breath. He forgot she can't read his mind. Yet. He plops on his knees in front of her and cups her face.

"We are going back to my hotel, we will shag on those ridiculous sheets they have in there, and tomorrow you are going home with me." She lifts her brows, and then there is a new expression on her face. Her eyes go blank, and it looks like she is performing some complicated mathematical calculations in her head. Then she blinks and smiles to him.

"OK. And your belt is there, I think I threw it too hard..." He quickly kisses her and goes to pick it up. When he is back, she is standing fully dressed and hands him his jacket. He suddenly realizes he is sleepy and laughs again.

He pulls her in, and she hides into his chest. She fits perfectly. "I changed my mind. We are exchanging the ticket and have a lie-in tomorrow, with room service and a lot of sleep."

Her arms wrap around his waist, and she rubs her cheek to his sternum in the still open shirt, "If I were you I wouldn't hope for much sleep."

**Final A/N: Look in the next chapter to see the instructions of this new game I came up :)**


	40. Instructions

**"Kkolmakov Is Taking Prompts" Game**

**New and improved rules!**

1\. Leave a review with five words of your choice. Make it hard, I'm in a "who da man" mood :)

2\. Choose the format: you have a choice between 50, 100 or 200 words.

3\. It will always be Wren and Thorin but otherwise, Mahal knows :)

4\. Feel free to send more as soon as your prompt is fulfilled.

5\. If you don't want your penname and/or the prompt to be disclosed to other readers, send the prompt in a PM and specifically let me know.

6\. Specify if you really want it to be smut or fluff, or leave the choice to me.

7\. Have fun! :D


	41. Sledding

**For Wynni**

**1\. sledding, 2. summer, 3. sea urchins, 4. chips (your definition, not mine), 5. monkeypants**

**[200 words]**

Sledding with him is brill! Mostly because even with parkas and snowpants he still manages to turn it into a gropefest. His laughing eyes, little crow's feet in the corners, and his scorching deft hands, seriously how did he just manage to graze your boobholder under two sweaters?!.. In Summer you are not going to the beach with him! You'll get arrested for public indecency! He topples you into snow and proceeds to nuzzle you. You are roaring with laughter, "Let me go! You are scratchy like a sea urchin! I'll have rug burns!"

He whispers into your ear, "Rug burns will come later, love. This is called stubble burn!"

You are squealing, "It's not a stubble! It's a beeeea.." You lose the train of thought, because his lips are on your neck over the pulse point. He pulls at an end of your scarf. You roll from under him and jump up and probably five feet away from him. "OK, sanity time! Let's go get some chips!"

He is lying on the ground, and damn, his icy eyes are burning! "Alright, but then some rug time," damn his voice! "Lead the way, monkeypants!" You do have monkeys on your knickers, but how does he know?!

**A/N: Oh that is so much FUN! **

**A/N#2: Lovely dearreader and the rest of you, my lovelies, please, give me the word count! The challenge of staying within the limits is so ace! :) **


	42. Champagne

**For ****dearreader**

**1\. nurse, 2. near drowning, 4. shark, 5. champagne**

**[200 words]**

**A/N: I added "champagne" as I think "near drowning" counts as one :)**

John gets up and raises his glass, and the guests quiet down. "I would like to thank you all for coming, and of course I would like to thank my future wife for storming into my life at Hawaii five months ago." Wren smiles to him warmly and slightly lifts her flute as well. It is Golden Star White Jasmine Sparkling Tea in her glass, but no one has to know. "I would like to thank my childhood pool trainer, Mr. Boggins, for the traumatic experience of nearly drowning at the age of six," he raises his glass a bit, "Thank you, Mr. Boggins, wherever you are. I am also grateful for Wren's shortsightedness and mistaking a buoy for a shark, and trying to climb me like a tree while I was cowardly pretending to swim still holding on to the ladder. I would also like to thank that nameless nurse in the hospital who said we looked cute together. And most of all, thank you, Wren, for making me the jammiest bloke alive." He leans in and quickly kisses her lips. "To future Mrs. Wren Thorington!" The guests cheer, and Wren bites into her bottom lip. What a duffus!

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See instructions in chapter 40.**


	43. Unicorn

**For GuestReaderA**

**1\. coconut, 2. unicorn, 3. catharsis, 4. teleporting, 5. lumberjack**

**[100 words]**

"Thea!" You run into the coffee shop and grab her shoulders. She looks at you skeptically. You are bedraggled. "I am in love!" You must be yelling. "It's the new medieval lit prof! He is some sort of a unicorn, men like him don't exist! He is built like a lumberjack, but the hands!.. Long fingers, so artistic! I think I had some sort of catharsis at the end of his lecture. And the dark hair and blue eyes!.. Oh bugger, teleport me between his sheets! And he smells like coconut!"

"He is also standing right behind you."

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See instructions in chapter 40.**


	44. Fissure

**For ****Iamje**

**1\. fissure, 2. legitimate, 3. slanderous, 4. addict, 5. clay**

**[100 words]**

He is frowning. "Well, that is rather unfortunate. There is deep fissure in the molar. Have you been using the bentonite clay powder I mentioned last time?" Since your mouth is ajar, all you can do is moan. "Well, Ms. Leary, you are just very unlucky. I know you are not a sugar addict or anything, but it's just genetics. Sorry for the slanderous talk of your parents," he smiles. Can laughing gas be considered a legitimate excuse if you sexually assault your dentist? He takes off his gloves and asks, "And now to the important stuff. Will you have dinner with me?"

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See new and improved instructions in chapter 40.**

**Also, I changed the rules a bit! Please, leave ****the prompts in the reviews****, PM service here is driving me bonkers :D**


	45. Air Conditioning

**For ****gemini-6989**

**1\. cat, 2. gardening, 3. suitcase, 4. birthday, 5. air conditioning**

**[200 words]**

The air conditioning isn't working. You called the service, but they will only come tomorrow. It's mid-July, and it's +34. You texted John and whined. He is in France at a conference, it's the middle of a night there, but he was sufficiently sympathetic. You tried closing and opening windows, same shite, taking a cool shower, and going outside. The park turned out a hundred times worse than the house. And now you are stretched on the marble tile parlour floor in the old overalls you usually wear when gardening. John says you look like Old MacDonald in them. He adores the overalls because if he unclasps the braces the whole thing just falls on the floor. There is nothing under the denim at the moment. You look like a seastar. The door to the parlour opens, and John freezes on the threshold with a suitcase in his hand. He is two days early. You momentarily think he made an effort to make it by your birthday. A wide catlike grin appears on his face, and he slowly puts the suitcase down. You peek with one eye pretending you are too weak to move. "You are overdressed for this heat, little one."

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See new and improved instructions in chapter 40.**

**Also, I changed the rules a bit! Please, leave ****the prompts in the reviews****, PM service here is driving me bonkers :D**


	46. Food Court

**For ****Wynni**

**1\. food court, 2. diapers (changed for "nappies" for Britishness :D), 3. bronies, 4. dragoncon, 5. lamp**

**[200 words]**

Two teenagers are sitting at the table next to you in, what locals call, a food court in a mall. "... So we were visiting my aunt in Atlanta, and went to the fucking Dragoncon, man," one of them drones. "And there was this fucking bronies convention there, and fuck me, all those fucking pink ponies…" He adds an intricate swearing, and you wrinkle your nose.

Thea whispers, "Someone needs a nappy on their mouth..." You are considering clobbering them to the head with this new lamp you bought in a place called Home Depot. Suddenly, a man sitting one table to the left turns to them and in an even authoritative tone tells them to scale the swearing down. He has an almost unnoticeable Northern accent, and Thea makes big eyes. Another Brit in a shopping center in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada! The teens puff up their chests, but then notice the size of the bloke. You notice it too, as well as the luscious ponytail and the sexiest neck. He turns to you and smiles politely. And then he blinks, and his eyes roam your face. You blush furiously and hear Thea's voice, "So, kind sir, allow me to introduce my friend Wren to you..."

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See new and improved instructions in chapter 40.**

**Also, I changed the rules a bit! Please, leave the ****prompts in the reviews****, PM service here is driving me bonkers :D**


	47. Droid

**For ****gemini-6989**

**1\. proof, 2. waiver, 3. loft, 4. droid, 5. shakedown**

**[100 words]**

"Love, you are going to have a shakedown..."

"A what?"

"It's a type of plastic deformation..."

"John, it's a pumpkin, not one of your barmy plastic structures. And it's supposed to be fun, a nice Septic tradition."

"Love, you are sitting in the middle of our loft covered in orange goo, how's that fun?"

"OK, take this bin and consider it your waiver to help."

"But I want to help!"

"You are criticizing my astromech droid! That's another proof that you are a grouch!"

"Yes," he purrs, "You like me because I'm a grouch. There aren't enough grouches in your life."

"Duffus!"

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See new and improved instructions in chapter 40.**

**Please, leave ****the prompts in the reviews****, PM service here is driving me bonkers :D**


	48. Vampire

**For ****Just4Me**

**1\. numpty, 2. waistcoat, 3. vampire, 4. daybed, 5. puppy**

**[200 words]**

**A/N: OMG, ****Just4Me****, you are a genius! I LOVE this one so much, I might turn it into a full scale chapter. **

OK, your name isn't Thea if you aren't getting yourself some sweet rogering on a daybed in the back room tonight. So our choices are… Killian from Auditing, nice arse, a costume of a pirate. And yes to the waistcoat and the boots, fit calves on men are rare. He gives you puppy eyes over his drink, numpty, but maybe his blonde brother in a toga is a smarter choice. Look at those arms, as if made bespoke for you. And he is well familiar with the concept of a one-off. No manky whining in the morning. Wait, is that Wrennie Leary from Human Resources? What a fit ickle thing! Smart choice of a costume as well. She is pale, and the vampire fangs with red lipstick make her plump bottom lip look even better. Finally, chick, some proper eyeliner! She is usually so au naturel that you feel like attacking her with mascara. Oh-oh, Mr. Grumpy is here! Seriously does he know the Grouchy Boss is an overused trope? Wait… That's the most obvious eye sex that you have ever seen. You get randy just from looking at these two. And do they really think no one noticed that he just brushed his hand over her firm little bum?

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See new and improved instructions in chapter 40.**

**Please, leave ****the prompts in the reviews****, PM service here is driving me bonkers :D**


	49. Fanfiction

**A/N: Not part of the game, but I hope you'll like it :D **

**Wynni asked me a question, and this happened, took 15 min to throw this together :)**

You rush into the flat, shaking off your court shoes and throwing the handbag on the key table. "John!"

"In the kitchen!" You jump on one foot, one of your black stilettos isn't cooperating. Your old pot is cooking. Oh, you love a cooking John, rolled up sleeves and a ponytail. He leans in to help you snog him, he is a big bloke, and you plop on the bar stool.

"How was your day?" He is slicing a tomato, and that's a mesmerizing spectacle. You tear your eyes off the rhythmical movements of the knife and smile to him.

"Nuh, had better ones. Usual barney. But listen, a very odd thing happened at lunch." He slightly lifts his brows to show he is listening.

You pull out your mobile out of your pocket and ask, "Do you know what fanfiction is?" He pops a piece of cheese into his mouth and chews thoughtfully.

"It's when they write porn for women with literary characters thrown in? That stuff you read about Loki. Which is not bothering me in the least." He is smirking lopsidedly, and you stick your tongue at him. He wiggles his eyebrows.

"So, what happened is at lunch Thea was telling me about this Hobbit smut she read with Fili and Kili and another chick that they first share, and then it turns out she is not a sub and she shags Kili's brains out, withholding his orgasm five times..." John is chewing another piece of cheese thoughtfully.

"I'm worried about you, Wrennie."

"Oh shut up, that's not the point of the story." You steal a slice of cheese as well and throw it in your mouth. No, nothing special, you just don't get cheese. He chuckles and gets back to his vegetables.

"You were saying..."

"So I found this other chick writing, I mean they are almost always chicks, and she has Thorin Oakenshield, and he has a wife, a woman named Wren." John hums noncommittally.

"It's a beautiful name, love."

"That's not the point. Have you read the book?" He looks at you and scratches his long nose with the handle of the knife.

"I guess… At school. Oh, yeah, we had a play at school. I played an Elf." You giggle.

"Did they give you a long wig?" You are momentarily distracted by a thought of John in some sort of Medieval costume.

"Don't get any ideas, little one, and no, there was no wig." You chuckle.

"Anyroad, so I read a couple of the stories by this chick, they are all about the King Under the Mountain and his wife, they have like six sprogs or something, there is a lot written, like seriously, she definitely has no life. Probably some sad spinster with eight cats… Oh look at me, I'm bitchy!" You pause and squirm on a chair upset with yourself.

"You are just hungry. You are always slightly stroppy when you are." He pushes a plate with mozzarella salad to you. You blow him a grateful air kiss, quickly run to wash your hands and dig in.

"So, there are these stories..." You are mumbling with your cheeks stuffed, and John puts a wok on the stove. "And if you remember the book, Thorin is this old man, very grumpy, talks a lot, bores everyone to death… Bilbo even stops retelling Thorin's speeches after a while, and he is the oldest of Dwarves. So now listen to this..."

You quickly click your mobile and read off the screen, "_There is a Dwarf in your bed, a gorgeous, sleeping, naked Dwarf. Black strands splayed on the pillow, lush thick lashes, prominent straight nose, luscious beard and of course, the lips… His sensually curved, soft lips, that performed the most enticing acts all over your body last night… Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain is in your bed, in a deep postcoital slumber._"

You look up and see John hardly suppressing laughter. "Really, Wren?"

"Oh do shut up!" He smiles wider, all white teeth, and you throw a bunch of cilantro into him. He picks it up and chews a leaf thoughtfully.

"Alright, so? I mean, a bit too much in the sensual department, but could be worse… At least she is not talking about his pecker..."

"She is! Wait…" You scroll down. "_People should be shouting about it on every corner, proclaiming the glorious cynosure that is a Dwarven phallus and sing praise to Mahal, the Maker, the Father of Dwarves, the Smith of the Powers!" _John is mouthing "cynosure" and snortles. "Alright, so that was fun, but then I read more, and it started being a bit creepy." You frantically scroll through the texts.

"Creepy?" The wok is ready, and John throws his stir fry in.

"OK, firstly, Wren is a ginger. Like a proper ginger, like me, all "unruly curls" and "copper mane," you know…" You see him shrug his shoulders.

"Makes sense, if that chick turned the grumpy old dodger into a dark haired hunk, it makes sense to give him a redhead. For colour coordination." He is swirling hissing and spitting vegetables in the pan.

"Hm, I haven't thought about it… OK, but listen! She is short, skinny, has green slanted eyes, he is dark haired, blue eyed, large bloke, wide shoulders, long nose..." John peeks at you over his shoulder and cocks one eyebrow.

"OK, let me get this straight, are you hinting that they look like us? Is that where you are leading with all this discussion of his sensual lips and the cynosure that is his penis?"

"First of all it was "phallus", and yes, that's exactly where I'm leading."

"I don't have a long nose, Wren." He looks slightly haughty and quickly checks his reflection in the kettle. You are giving him a sceptical look. "Well, alright, it is not stubby..."

"Uh-huh… And he loves cheese. Wait, I had a piece about it… Here, _You watch your older son meticulously chew a piece of cheese. Thorin picks up another one from a platter for himself. They both share an immense fondness for it. Like two giant black mice, they devour it before you can say 'cantankerous Dwarf'. _What do you think now?"

He laughs, "Many people love cheese..."

"Not the way you do!" He opens his mouth to argue but has to turn back to the wok.

"OK, look at this then," you clear your throat and read expressively, "_The King's hot heavy body collapses on yours, all muscles in it trembling, his breathing laboured, and he is mumbling in your neck. You are stroking his shoulders and start laughing. A few seconds later, seemingly having recovered from his climax, he lifts his face. "How did I manage to amuse you this time, my Queen?" He rolls on his back and presses you into him. The King Under the Mountain is surprisingly affectionate after lovemaking. You settle on his chest and smile into his bright blue, joyful eyes. "Do you realize, my Lord, that you swear in Khuzdul after your release?" His brows fly up. "Pardon?" "You swear. In Khuzdul. After your spill your seed. Very seldom, but I learnt to understand it as a sign of an especially enraptured release for you, my Lord."_

You are quiet, letting the info sink. John's back is tense, and he is stirring the food. "That doesn't prove anything..." He turns around and points at you with his spatula.

"Oh really, how about this, _He presses more kisses, each next one even more reverent and gentle than the previous, and she sighs. He traces the line of elegant shoulder blades, and murmurs, "Like an apple tree in bloom..." She turns and looks at him in surprise. "Pardon, my Lord?" "The colour, it is white but there is this pink tint..." He chuckles, "I am afraid eloquent compliments are not my forte, my Queen, as you no doubt have discovered over the years." She smiles to him, and he strokes her back, seemingly absorbed in the sensation of the smoothness and glowing softness. _You said exactly the same thing to me on our honeymoon!" His stirfry is burning. You decide to finish him off. "And her best friend's name is Thea."

"Give me this!" He grabs the phone from your hands and pushes the spatula towards you. "Stir!" You snort at his commanding tone and take his place at the stove. He falls on a stool and is quickly scrolling through the texts. "What the actual?.."

"His penis has a curve, John." You can't see him but feel his frantic movements behind your back. "I'll give you one attempt to guess which way his todger is pointing."

"No way in hell… What the… Have you seen this?!" He reads, "_Thorin is ticklish. The ribs, the sides of his stomach, the feet, under his knees. Weirdly enough, the inside of his wrists. You sometimes crawl up to him when he is sleeping and gently kiss the skin there. His fingers twitch, and he clenches a fist. _You totally do that! You kiss my wrists!"

"I know… Why do you think I was so spun out?"

"Wait, are you taking a piss out of me?" His tone is suddenly suspicious. "Did you write this?" Oh silly man!

"Look at the date of publication, John, we haven't met then yet."

"Bugger..."

"Yep."

"Wait..." He apparently has a new theory. "Did you use this a manual? Were you doing all this to match the stories?!" You turn and give him a stare. He looks slightly panicked but then returns to his senses.

"Yeah, sorry, that was a mental idea."

"Exactly, love. How would I have bent your magnificent penis to match the stories?" He is still reading.

"Oh bloody hell… _He is still panting, his clammy forehead pressed to the back of your neck, and you giggle. "Do I dare ask what is so funny?" His voice is grumpy, and you giggle again. You have missed the tone. "Do you not remember? I laugh when I am aroused." He chuckles and kisses your neck. "Are you already? I still have not gotten my vision back."_

"Oh, yeah, my giggling is there too. And he has a glorious hairy chest." That distracts your husband from the phone for a moment.

"What about the chest?"

"Seriously, John?" You add the chicken and give him a look.

"Oh she is also unhealthily obsessed with his chest!" You hurl an oven mitt into his head.

"I am very much healthily obsessed with your chest, thank you very much! But your freakish love for my shoulder blades is there too, don't worry!"

"They are beautiful!" He sounds defensive.

"Thorin says they look like folded wings of a delicate bird," you pronounce in a sing-song voice, and he suddenly blushes. Oh? Someone is a closeted romantic, are we? Interesting… You take the wok off the stove and come up to him. You spread his knees and press into him. He looks alarmed. "Do you think that my shoulder blades are like the wings of a delicate bird, John?"

"No..." He is shifting his eyes. You press into him harder.

"Hm… So you also don't think this..." You pull the phone out of his hand and read, "_She is his, __submitted to him, her body supple and tender. His competitiveness and possessiveness are mollified, he is mostly worried how he performed, but he is ecstatic, she obviously enjoyed him. She is so small and fragile, but also strong and responsive. He has seen how she looks at him, and he hopes it is azyungel, and for him it is all or nothing, black and white, the world is simple, and she is his._"

"I do not worry about my performance!" Yeah, John, that totally didn't sound squeaky!

You read another piece, "_He is intimately familiar with her sex, hours and hours have been spent looking, touching, licking, sucking... He adores how her folds warm up, welcoming his caresses, and how the colour changes from pale pink to almost red. Never under the most horrible of tortures would he confess but every time when his fingers and lips slide between her spread legs he thinks that it is like a flower, blooming and fragrant, opening up just for him. But no, he is not some mawkish dimwit to come up with poetic comparisons for his wife's quim!_"

You lift your eyes at John, there are feverish spots burning on his cheekbones above his beard. He has a strange facial expression.

"Should I worry about my psychological health if I find this mildly arousing?" You ask, waving the phone in front of his nose. He grabs it, throws on the counter and pulls you into a deep kiss.

You two are snogging, and it's definitely at the stage when it should be taken to the bedroom.

You tear your mouth off his, "John, so what are we thinking about this?" Men are one-track mind creatures, and right now all his blood has travelled away from his brain. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, and yes, Thorin in those stories does it too.

"We'll think about it later, and consider this," He leans in and catches your ear with his lips, "We have our own bespoke written porn. How ace is that?" You laugh, and he picks you up under your arse to carry to the bedroom.

Later that night you are straddling him, in the buff, and murmur in his ear, "Read to me, love."

He picks up the phone and in his low, velvet voice, that always turns you into a puddle of adoration, he reads, "_Never before had he wanted to be tender with a woman or a man. Passionate, inventive, even considerate of their release, yes, but overwhelmed with some piercing, almost painful tenderness, that came with her. Sometimes he runs his fingers through her hair, lulling her to sleep, attentively watching the small changes in her face, lashes fluttering, eyes moving under delicate lids, lips relaxing. Thorin is madly in love with his wife._"


	50. Mardi Gras

**A/N: Common, hit me with more prompts! :) Make it hard, it's like you are not even trying! :D**

**For Wynni**

**1\. mardi gras, 2. Szechuan chicken, 3. blue grass (your choice, actual grass, or the music from the area), 4. eight ball, 5. blinkers**

**[200 words]**

**Smut**

He picks you up and presses into the wall, you drop the bag with your takeout on the ground and squeak, "Our Szechuan chicken..." His long fingers slide under your knickers. Is he actually…?! He hooks his thumb on the lace and pulls your underwear aside. Apparently he is. You probably have a very surprised face, and he chuckles. People who have been married for eleven years are not supposed to… You moan. He shushes you and starts pounding into you. Blimey! There is the Mardi Gras parade, right there, at the end of the backalley you are in! Good thing that horse had blinkers! Your back scraping against a brickwall, your legs wrapped around his waist… Your orgasm hits you like an eightball, and you bite into his shirt covered shoulder to hide your scream. He moves couple times more, and comes, burying his face into your neck. You stroke the back of his head and rub your temple to his. A line from Bluegrass Cardinals is twirling in your head, _I can't stop praisin' the day I found you/ I'd walk a hundred miles just to be around you/Nothing can stop me, stop me, stop my loving you…_

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See new and improved instructions in chapter 40.**

**Please, leave ****the prompts in the reviews****, PM service here is driving me bonkers :D**


	51. Yaoi

**A/N: I LOVE everyone's prompts! I was just being cocky :D**

**For ****Wynni**

**1\. racing 2. scuba 3. barnyard 4. yaoi 5. pumpernickel**

**[200 words]**

You hate conferences. They are part of academic life, but unlike teaching, presenting a paper gives you stage fright. You are rehearsing, standing in the middle of the room, flipping through slides, waving a piece of pumpernickel with butter and arugula in your hand.

"The subgenre of the homoerotic manga, known as yaoi, is primarily aimed at a female audience..."John pounces at you with a rather convincing growl, throws you on the li-lo and bites a generous piece from your sarnie. "Hey, were you born in a barnyard?" You fake indignation, but your heart is racing.

"The expression is 'were you born in a barn,' love, and no, I was born in the Lindo Wing."

"Posh! And off you go. I'm engaged." He slides down your body.

"Then you really shouldn't walk around all professor like, with your glasses, and smart words, while only wearing your underwear..." He grabs the waist of your knickers with his teeth and starts pulling them off. You are panting and blindly throw the sarnie aside. It plops in your new aquarium. There is no fish there yet, just a scuba diver ornament. John guffaws and gives your thigh a long scorching lick. Mamma mia!

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See new and improved instructions in chapter 40.**

**Please, leave ****the prompts in the reviews****, PM service here is driving me bonkers :D**


	52. Dumbledore

**For GuestReaderA**

**1\. hippotherapy, 2. Dumbledore, 3. succulent, 4. skydiving, 5. Freud**

**[100 words]**

"John, look at that! _Dumbledore moaned in low voice and claimed Harry's succulent, never kissed before lips, and the boy's heart fluttered and ached. He felt as if during skydiving, and he was not sure he even had a parachute..._" Your husband cocks one brow and gives you an incredulous look over his book.

"Blimey, Wren, why are you reading this poppycock?"

"I'm a psychologist, darling, I'm studying people's minds! Fanfiction is everything Freud dreamt about but didn't have access to!"

"You are hippotherapy specialist. What do Harry's succulent lips have to do with horses?"

"You'd be surprised!"

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See new and improved instructions in chapter 40.**

**Please, leave ****the prompts in the reviews****, PM service here is driving me bonkers :D**


	53. Muggle

**For ****Wynni**

**1\. five card stud, 2. baby stroller (changed to "pram" for Britishness, as usual :D), 3. sweat pants (you'll find, my darling, that "tracksuit bottoms" are the words you are looking for :D ), 4. bedhead, 5. muggle**

**[200 words]**

The vicar smiles and nods to John, "Pronounce your vows, John."

"Wren, I do solemnly declare to be your loyal wedded husband through the good and the bad, through every day and every night," something sparkles in his eyes, and you tell yourself you shouldn't giggle during your wedding ceremony, "Through days when you have a bedhead and the day when you wear a fancy dress to accept the Nobel Prize, through days when you are too tired to push the pram and through days when you once again play five card stud better than me," his eyes are brilliant, and your heart skips a beat, "I promise to love and to cherish you even if you ever start wearing tracksuit bottoms and stop calling me a 'muggle'." His lips twitch in a suppressed smile. "I give you this ring as a sign of our marriage, and as a symbol of our love, one ring to rule you, one ring to find you, one ring to bring you and in the love bind you." That's when you finally giggle into his laughing eyes. "I promise to never take your love for granted and kill any insects that wander into our home. I love you, Wren."

**A/N: Please, find Wren's vows in the next one!**

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See new and improved instructions in chapter 40.**

**Please, leave ****the prompts in the reviews****, PM service here is driving me bonkers :D**


	54. Mortgage

**A/N: Who da man? :D More, please!**

**For ****Just4Me**

**1\. highlander, 2. mortgage, 3. blues (mood or music), 3. seaweed, 4. garage**

**[200 words]**

You smile widely and pick up the ring, "I, Wren, take you, John, to be my friend, my lover, the father of my children and my husband." He smiles back, and nothing exists in the world but his amazing cerulean eyes. "I will be yours in times of plenty and in times of want, in times of sickness and in times of health, in times of joy and in times of blues," something must change in your eyes, since he slightly lifts one of his black eyebrows, "On days of mortgage payments and on the day of a house warming party, through evenings of "Highlander" marathons and through the cancellation of "Firefly," on the day you will finally clean up the garage and the day I will hopefully understand your love for the seaweed salad, on the day when our children take their first breath and on the day that I draw my last. I love you and can't wait to be your wife." He lunges ahead and cupping the back of your head he pulls you into a deep kiss. The bloke can never follow a procedure! The church laughs, and you finally push the ring on his finger.

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See new and improved instructions in chapter 40.**

**Please, leave ****the prompts in the reviews****, PM service here is driving me bonkers :D**


	55. All Tricks in the Book

Book signings are always fun, because they are always unpredictable. There are certain elements obviously that repeat every time, but on the other hand each one is a small adventure. Of course there are always blokes in cosplay, full respect to them, some of their costumes are absolutely ace. They are always Lucas though, it's funny. You have written other characters but no one is as popular as your Fallen Warrior of the Red North. What can you say? You are fond of the wanker too. Occasional Guy here and there, and chicks fancy a Porter, but that's as far as it gets. Chicks are also predictable at such events. Those who want to shag Lucas and those who want to... Well, in most cases they are hoping to go home with you. You love to see them cosplay though, genderbend is brill!

You do your usual thing, give a speech, read a paragraph from the new book, they laugh, they gasp, they swoon. The Q and A, and finally the signing itself. The line is endless, faces, faces, occasional Stone Mountain mask, they still didn't get over the reveal in Book Seven, you ask the name, write something and put your squiggle. There are phone numbers and cards inside the books, once there were knickers, so far none of that, thank goodness, and then the next two come up. You first notice the taller one, since… Let's face it, no one, literally no bloke, can ever focus on her eyes, with all this opulence. There is a certain percentage of your fans of her type. Robust, fit, slightly loose. You do write steamy stuff. And in our age of gender equality, one only has to familiarise oneself with Tumblr and Pinterest to earn the hearts, and other parts, of the other half of potential readership. But this one is definitely not interested, she spares you one evaluating glimpse, and pushes her friend ahead. The second one is ickle, a ginger, in glasses. Unlike all the rest of them she really didn't make an effort to dress fancy. Hm… But then all thoughts of her oversized jumper leave your head. As soon as you see the eyes. She is definitely short-sighted, but behind the Grandpa glasses you see the most unusual eyes. Amber, liquid, ever changing colour, slanted, almost Asian, thick black lashes. No mascara.

"Hi!" You smile wider just to see how the eyes will change. This is your second best smile, never fails. She blinks and stretches her hand with your book open. It's not the latest one, it's Book Eight, your favourite. Least popular by the way. Your eyebrows jump up.

"It's my favourite," she explains. Nice voice, melodic, confident, slightly sarcastic. Is she hinting she didn't like the last one?

"And your name is..."

"Wren." You quickly write _To Wren, with love, John Thorington_. And put your squiggle.

You hand her the book back, she grabs it, and then blurts out, "Thank you for killing off Thrundon, it was ace." You look into her eyes. You can't believe it. You literally got hate mail for that feat. So satisfying though.

"Really?" She smiles, and you realise you are not the only one here with "the charming, unforgettable smile," and you are only quoting the press.

"Honestly, so wicked. I think I did a small victory dance around my kitchen. The self-righteousness in the tosser, gee!" You two are still holding the book by the two ends, and something must conk out in your noggin. You pull the book towards yourself, and she instinctively steps closer.

"Have dinner with me, Wren," you whisper, you really don't want all the others in the line to attack her and pull out her odd orange curls. Their ends brush her jaw. Her eyes widen, twice their normal size, and she does a rather unexpected thing.

She quickly looks over her shoulder at her busty friend, and hisses, "Thea!" The chick comes up and leans in too. All three your heads are close together, as if you are third graders secretly sharing sweets hiding them from other sprogs, and you chuckle. You've never been in a situation like that.

"What are we talking about?" The one called Thea whispers, and you quickly regroup your forces.

"I'm asking your friend out, and I think she is hoping for your blessing." A bit of velvet into the tone, charming but not sleazy.

"Jesus, Wren, say yes." Thea shakes her head and turns to you. "You have to be patient with this one. And give her all the variables from the start, like the dress code and stuff. She is a mathematician." You look at Wren with interest. Her delicate cute nose twitches, and to your surprise she nods.

"I am socially awkward. I'd think twice before going to a public place with me." And that is when you notice the plump red bottom lip and the freckles on the porcelain skin of the exquisite cheekbones.

"I'll take my chances."

xxx

You chose a small Chinese restaurant and came fifteen minutes before the time so that a random fan if one happens to dine here is to come up to you before you focus your attention on Ms. Wren Leary. There happen to be three, a couple and a spotty teenager. You sigh their napkins, chat amicably, and feeling they are your best mates they go back to their tables. Definitely won't bother you anymore.

She looks very nice. A tight dark blue dress, hair in a mad halo around her head, minimum make up. And she is clearly endlessly uncomfortable. And five minutes early. Chicks tend to be at least ten minutes late, to enter a place with maximum effect, some wait around the corner. This one strides in, her walk graceful but determined, and smiles uncertainly to you.

They bring you a pot of green tea, and she quite obviously hides behind her menu. You chuckle and allow her the privacy. She is making small "hm" sounds, so actually choosing. Hasn't thought that through in advance, has she? Refreshing.

"Have you been here before? How's their Fuqi feipian?" Really? An oily, spicy dish, as un-sexy as possible? A mathematician indeed.

"I have, and most of their dishes are good." You are studying her fingers on the menu. Tiny, probably very strong hands, short nails. Three wide silver rings, one Celtic, one with a tree of life. The last one is old, with a large garnet. Two hundred quid on the assumption that it's her granny's.

She lowers the menu sharply and blurts out, "Thea told me to keep my god shut regarding your books, as you are probably sick of answering questions about them, and do the small talk first, but why did Lady Kaya abandon Lucas in Book Nine? It just doesn't make sense to me! Everything in your books always makes sense to me!" You guffaw. You just can't help it. She is odd and adorable.

"Everything? Even the river episode?" Oh, the infamous river episode. Even your editor who had stopped criticizing you years ago had his doubts.

"Of course!" She puts the menu down, completely forgetting about it right away. "All his actions are absolutely logical in it. He acts as a member of his race, based on their values and beliefs. I don't understand why people freak out! You just kept the character consistent. His attitudes seemed to work for everyone when they concerned him being a great lover or a good thief, but once he abandons his friend, as any of the Fallen would do, everyone is suddenly dischuffed!" She takes a sip from her cup, and her nose twitches again. It's a funny gesture. It's like a millisecond flare of nostrils. Very disdainful. You chuckle.

"Well, ta, I think it is a perfect example of fans only seeing those elements of a characters that fit their own hierarchy of values."

"Then what's with Lady Kaya dumping him?" She makes a forceful gesture with her right hand. She has artistic hands, dry, small, fingers long and flexible. Not artistic, intellectual.

"Maybe, she is just a bitch?" She puffs air and picks up her menu.

"Don't be a berk. You just don't want to tell me," she is back to studying the assortment of Szechuan dishes, and you are staring at her. Berk indeed. You just got told off by a small unassuming bird.

You order, and she is fidgeting with her chopsticks. Probably trying to come up with some topic for a small talk. Has she ever been on a date before?

"I don't normally date," she deadpans and frowns. And then lifts her remarkable eyes at you. "I'm abrupt, direct, Thea says I intimidate men. Because I'm smarter than them." You lift your eyebrows. She twitches her nose again. The gesture reminds you of Madame Vastra from _Doctor Who. _The same haughtiness and aloofness. But then her eyes fall on the coaster, and she picks up her cup. It's empty, you were discreetly watching her drink. She stares at its bottom. "I know I'm supposed to say that I think I'm smarter than them, but purely scientifically I possess higher intelligence, so I do not see why I have to pussyfoot around it." She defiantly lifts her chin and gives you a glare. Obviously expects you to argue. You hum and nod. Didn't expect this, did she?

"Do you teach?" You are good with chicks. Lots of experience, and the looks help. Genetics above all, the height, the build, you have perfected the look as well. The beard, the ponytail, casual style, a mix of safari and medieval scout, always expensive shoes, women pay attention. This one didn't. All she probably noticed is that you are not naked. Or perhaps not even that. Her eyes are brilliant, she has so many questions about your books! It is mad, but you want to answer them all.

"Do I teach?" She chuckles. "Do I seem like a mentor type to you? I can hardly tolerate the thickness of my colleagues!" She pours herself tea and lifts the pot offering you some. You nod. "The problem is I know not everyone is a mathematician, say, you are not, your brilliance lies elsewhere." Her nonchalance is thrilling. "But if a person is in math, why are they so plank?" The question is rhetorical, and you hum again. Women love your hums, something that in fanfiction is called "low rumbling in his chest." And yes, of course you read FF. Demand and supply, know your market, etcetera.

"So do you just sit and think all day?" You are genuinely interested. And not just "keep asking questions to keep a chick talking about herself" type of thing. She looks into her once again empty cup.

"I suppose, that is how it looks. Sometimes I go on lunches, with Thea mostly. She teaches music. We've known each other since we were five." You hum again. She isn't wearing glasses today, and you suppose her busty friend has something to do with the changes in her appearance. You realize you don't like them. You thought the glasses were ace. You two are quiet for a while, and you realize that she is studying you as well.

"Can I ask a foolish question? I honestly know it is daft," she inhales deeply. And gods have mercy on you, blushes. Wow. You might have just developed a fetish. She has amazing cheekbones, you used to dabble in art before, you always liked the black and white photography of women's faces. Clear lines. Her cheekbones are asking for one of those close ups. But with a bit of rosy blush they are hundred times more fit. The lashes flutter, and it's not the grotty lashes battering. She is embarrassed, and her cheeks warm up. Even the small cute ears are starting to burn. You imagine pressing your lips to them, and that's when you know you are toast.

"Shoot," your tone is even. You are not thirteen. You are calm. You just realized you want to shag her. It was to be expected. The question is whether ginger mathematicians in spinster sweaters even shag at all.

"Why not base your character on yourself, physique wise? It would have been easier to write. I am not criticizing, you did an amazing research, and your imagination is wicked, but a lanky, blonde man with pale skin, prone to sunburns, weak and suffering from heartburns? Why not all this? " She gestures all over you, and you chuckle. "The females readers would be chuffed to bits."

"I did base the character on myself, just twenty five year ago me." You smile to her and then realize you have never told it to anyone.

"Where did all this come from then?" She repeats the wave of her hand. "There is what? About seventeen stones in you?"

"More or less."

"And?.." She is bossy. Know-it-all and bossy. Wicked.

"I love pudding," you chuckle. "An incorrigible sweet tooth. Can't walk by a cake without taking a bite." She is listening. Really listening. Why are you still talking though? "So either a lot of exercise, or I'd become a typical reclusive writer. Would have to buy an island and the press would make the most outrageous assumptions on what exactly were happening there." She tilts her head and gives you a small smile.

"Are you sure that all the rowing, mountain climbing and swording isn't just for getting laid easier?" And boom. She is like whitewater rafting, as soon as you think you have finally caught a stream she tumbles you over. You guffaw.

"So you did read up on me?" She shakes her head.

"It says so at the back of every of your books, it is rather annoying by the way. Just below your puffed up photo in a henley and Sami bracelets. All I know about you is what it says in those couple paragraphs, and now I can add to it the data that you are fond of tofu, judging by your order." What a woman.

"I do love tofu, and yes, the photo is puffed up. Can't change it due to contract restrictions. Henleys are comfortable, and my sister gave me the bracelets. She went to Lapland for her research seven years ago. She is a geologist." She smiles to you softly. You are making excuses for your life choices. That's never happened before. What is it about her?

They bring your order, and the two of you start eating. She has a healthy appetite. And possibly a steel pallet. Even you can't eat that much yuxiang. You like the way her throat moves when she swallows. Amazing, you are randy. Even more amazing that you are more interesting in talking to her than knobbing her.

"So you know, Wren, I'm not sick of questions about my books. So feel free to ask," you pop some mapo tofu in your mouth and watch her eyes light up hungrily.

"Really? Oh, that's fantastic. I've been agonizing here that we really have nothing to talk about except your works!" You choke on your food and quickly wash it down with tea. She is looking at you in confusion. You snortle, what a muppet. Adorable, unique muppet.

"That's not exactly how dates work, Wren," you cock a brow. You know it's cliche, but women love your brow. You have practiced. It seems to work on her as well. She squirms on her chair and lowers her eyes into her plate.

"I am horrible at this, yeah?" She pokes a shrimp with her chopsticks.

"You are unusual, but you are doing fine. At least you are not dull," you joke, and she blushes again. You are going to embarrass her repeatedly. The colour is superb. "If you think you are horrible at this, why did you agree?" She stuffs a piece of offal in her mouth and chews thoroughly.

"I have so many questions. I thought you would answer at least a few before you leg it." You can't help it, you start roaring with laughter, and she is as red as beetroot. "I just assumed you decided to try something different..." She trails away and goes back to her food. She is embarrassed but not upset. Inconceivable woman.

"And how did you think this date would end, Wren?" You are studying her, and she twitches her nose again.

"In an awkward discussion of who pays the bill," she sips more tea, "And we are going Dutch by the way."

xxx

She comes with a throaty scream, her nails dig into your shoulders, and you were right, those are very strong little fingers. Magical woman. She falls back into the sheets, a playful curl stuck to her sweaty temple, and she is panting loudly.

"How?.. How are you doing this?.." Her voice is coarse. Poor thing, no wonder after all this screaming. She really stopped holding herself back once you said you have very thick walls. "I have never in my life felt this… thing." She is hilariously inarticulate after an orgasm. Then again, that's her third one.

"Practice, practice, and practice." You purr into her ear and nip on it just like you wanted through the dinner.

"Yay for practice," she weakly waves her hand in the air, and you guffaw. You are settled between her legs, and she is making snarky remarks. She opens her astonishing eyes and looks at you. Her eyebrows are hiked up in a genuine surprise. "I honestly thought I was frigid. Never liked sex before. This," she brushes her small palm on your waist, "This is revelational." You guffaw. You laugh a lot with her.

"I'm glad I could help." You catch her mouth, and she arches up and into you. She clenches around you, so small, so tight, and definitely not frigid. You will need all your skill and stamina tonight. Her slender arms wrap around your neck, and she sighs into you mouth. You tear your mouth off hers and look at her questioningly.

"What?" She blushes again, and it's not the rosy, all over her fit little body, pleased blush that you absolutely adore. This is the heady, uncomfortable mathematician one. You love them all.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself," she actually gives you an appraising look.

"I am," you reassure and quickly kiss her jaw, and she bites her bottom lip. You have plans for this bottom lip.

"Can we do it again sometime then? Or was I supposed to wait till you are done to ask?" She frown, and that's your undoing. You howl with laughter and fall down on her, your forehead pressed into the pillow near her temple. The last thing you see are her befuddled eyes, and you laugh harder.

"Oh my god, Wren," you are out of breath, and she slightly shifts, still clenching you inside her, and looks at your askew. "You impossible, brilliant Wren!" You rise on your elbows and peck her lips. "Yes, we can do it again, and yes, probably you should have waited till I'm done, whatever it is in your understanding!" You are still chortling, and she is still frowning.

"In my understanding..." She starts, but you have matters to attend. You press your lips to hers and thrust into her. A nice deep hard thrust, she moans loudly and wrap her legs around you tighter. Isn't that better than talking, love? She seems to be agreeing with your wholeheartedly, her heels dig into your arse spurring you.

Once you are "done," and you just can't stop chuckling about such way of putting it, she stretches on her stomach and closes her eyes. You run your fingertips from her shoulder, down the curve of her waist and then along her left buttock, down to the back of her thigh, and she peeks at you, her head resting on her folded arms. She looks very sleepy. Who knew that mathematicians in spinster sweaters are all cat like when they are in your bed, arching and purring, and demanding more, and immediately flagging after an orgasm? Or four, you really did well.

"Am I supposed to leave right away?" She yawns and in a stark contrast to her words moves closer to you. She is cuddly. It's adorable. She pushes her nose into your neck, and you feel the tip of it tickling you. Is she twitching it even now?

"You can. Or you can stay for breakfast. It's Saturday tomorrow. We can have a lie-in." You want to keep her. She is a wonder. She doesn't seem to mind. To be precise you assume she wouldn't mind. She is already asleep, her tiny fist curled on your chest. You pick up the fist and kiss the knuckles. She is not leaving on Monday either, that's for sure.

**A/N: I'm having a FF writing crisis. But when I'm out of it, who wants a multi-chapter about these Wren and Thorin? ;)**


	56. Five Fairytales: Rapunzel

**A/N: ****My lovelies****, I am in a strange writing crisis… :( Just letting you know I'm endlessly grateful for all your prompts for "Scattered," and when this strange dissatisfaction with my own stories is over, I'll write them all and will update "The Life That Always Will Be," "Prescription" and "Ice Ice Baby," and the math!Wren from "Scattered"#55 will saunter in our little world… But so far I just seem to dislike anything I write… Sorry.**

**A/N#2: There will be five of these. Maybe... Hard to predict… These days I can hardly produce anything… Anyways, I hope this one will at least make you smile a bit.**

FIVE FAIRYTALES

1\. Rapunzel

"Rapunzel! Rapunzel! Let down your hair!" A heavy mass of bright orange curls falls on the head of an astonished knight. He collapses on the ground with a loud clanking of the armour. His horse emits a derisive snort. The girl sticks her face out of a narrow tower window only to see the knight splayed on the ground like a starfish. The poor chap mumbles something from under the hair. She can only hear the "no one mentioned a ginger," and she scrunches her delicate nose.

"Alright there, mate?" Her tone is sarcastic.

"If I were you I would reconsider your previous answer to my proposal, princess." The dragon is reposing on the top of the tower, hidden from everyone's eyes by the tall battlements. "I highly doubt this is a knight for you." He slithers down the wall, his black scaly body glistening in the sun, icy blue eyes meet hers, and she jerks her chin up defiantly.

"My answer is still no, snake," she turns around and walks somewhere in the depth of her room. The dragon follows the copper strands sliding on the window sill with his eyes and smirks darkly.

"Aren't you bored there, princess? Same old room, same old books, and look! Yet another of them bolted," his tone is endlessly amused, the knight has indeed climbed on his horse again and is quickly disappearing in the distance, the comb on his helmet askew.

"You scared him off." The girl's voice is stubborn.

"We both know it is not true," the dragon's voice is low and velvet like, and he puts his heavy head on her window sill. "They always run. It has nothing to do with me." He can see the princess sitting on her bed, her back to him, straight and tense, and then he hears a sniffle. "Let me in, princess. Better me than nothing. One kiss, and you are out of this tower."

She sharply turns, and he sees her eyes are red and her lashes are wet. The bright red lips of her wide mouth are trembling, and she wipes her eyes with a heel of her palm.

"I'd rather stay here forever than be yours," she gives him a disdainful look, "Why do you even need a wife? You are a dragon! You are supposed to sleep on a pile of stolen gold and eat knights for breakfast." He warmly chuckles and cocks one scaly brow.

"I am bored, you seem like fun. Common, princess, one kiss, and I'll take you away from here."

"How exactly is it going to happen? You are going to put me on your neck and fly me out of here?" She asks venomously and crosses her arms. "You do know there is a spell on me, I can't leave the tower until I'm kissed by my one true love, yada yada yada…" She sniffs the last time and pulls her knees to her chin. The dragon smirks and closes his eyes. "Note the passive voice in this sentence, dragon. Kissed, not kiss. I can hardly see you kissing me with that muzzle of yours."

"I guess you'll just have to trust me, princess. Say yes and kiss me, and I promise to get you out of here." She makes a scornful noise and grabs a book from a shelf. In five minutes she is so absorbed in the algebra book that when the dragon speaks she jumps up as if having forgotten he is even there.

"Read to me, princess. Might as well entertain each other while we are waiting for the next knight."

"There won't be any next knight, if you are sitting right in front of my window! No wonder they all run!" The dragon opens one eye, and there is low rumbling in his enormous scaly body. It sounds like chuckling. Or perhaps like purring.

"The last three decided to leg it before I came out of my lovely hiding place, where I was crammed, by the way, only because you asked me, princess. It is not very comfortable..."

"Seriously, what's your problem?" The princess angrily snaps the book closed. "Are you actually enjoying my humiliation? Or you like their pathetic attempts to fight you?" He snortles.

"Statistically only one out of five of them even thought of it."

"It's because they are morons!" Her tone is exasperated. "Useless, imbecilic, superfluous, chauvinistic morons! They don't read, don't think, all they want is to joust and all they want from me is to cook and make babies! Damn, I'm so tired of this!" She falls back on the bed and furiously kicks a pillow.

The dragon is silent, his strange blue eyes are following the movement of the foot she is dangling off the edge of the bed. She puffs air out again and starts speaking, probably more to herself than him. It is a giant lizard after all. "Seriously, that's an aggro. If I stay here, I am at least free of some manky bloke whose only function in my life would be to drive me mad. If finally there shows up a knight brave enough to climb the stupid tower, the chances he'd be interested in me once he has a good look are close to zero..."

"How close to zero are we talking?" The dragon's voice is mischievous. "Like an integer close? Or the inverse of natural numbers?" She turns her head and stares at him. He chuckles and to her shock sticks his forked tongue at her. She opens her mouth and then shuts it with an audible clank of teeth. She climbs off the bed and comes up to him. The window is so narrow that only his head can fit in. Given he doesn't intrude and usually just puts his enormous muzzle on the window sill.

"I have two questions. Think about your answers hard, snake." One corner of his toothy gob goes up.

"I am listening."

"If I have 6 black socks, 4 blue socks, 8 brown socks, and 2 red socks in my sock drawer, what is the minimum number of socks that I need to pull out in the dark to be sure I have a matching pair?" The dragon is thinking and then smiles to her.

"Five, you need at least five, princess. And you don't wear socks." His blue eyes fall on her bare feet. She wiggles her toes on the floor. He then looks her in the eyes and licks his lips.

"Question number two. Why not eat me? That is what you are supposed to do with princesses. Based on the data on the flexibility and the length of your tongue I have calculated that I can't escape it if you decide to catch me. Unless I jump out of the window. Which I have also calculated will lead to my immediate death."

The dragon's tongue shoots out of his mouth and wraps around her waist. He pulls her closer and places in front of his scaly face. She yelps and stares at him aghast.

"Your calculations are right, your highness." He is giving out a low coarse laugh. "And answering your question, you are entertaining. Not like other princess, no girly and squealing, not running inside your tower in panic, no ringlets and pink lace. Different, strange, peculiar, odd… Choose any word you like."

"I don't like any of them," she frowns, and he barks another laughter. "I am not the acest of princesses, no blonde locks or rosy cheeks, I agree, but since you are so insistently proposing, you could have sugarcoated it somehow. I know I'm not the best looking princess, but still..."

"Do you want me to lie?" He is chuckling, and she sighs.

"Fair enough. Well, I guess, since there is no better option..." She suddenly steps ahead and presses her lips to his scaly nose. His brows jump, up and it is his turn to stare. She steps back and looks at him. "Well, do your best trick. How are you going to take me out of this tower?"

The scales melt off his skin, the face changes, there is a black beard, the eyes are still blue and the shape is the same, elongated and as if outlined with black, but this time those are fluffy lashes, and he smirks lopsidedly.

"Blimey..." The princess is giving him an appraising look. "I mean I expected something spectacular, but honestly… A naked bloke on my windowsill was not among my assumptions." He smiles wider. There are still scaly patches on his heavy muscular body, strange ridges on his forearms and on one side of the neck. She realizes she is staring and quickly turns away. The ridges form an interesting pattern. Down the neck, around the shoulder, around the narrow waist and below down to… She grabs the cover from the bed and blindly hurls it behind to him. She hears a rustle and cautiously turns. He wrapped it around his lower half and is studying her with one of his brows cocked sardonically.

"OK, I'll give you that. That was impressive, and this..." She gestures up and down around his body, "This is ace. But there is still a question of getting out of the tower."

He makes a few slow steps towards her, and she realized she is backing up from him. Her back bumps into the bedpost, and he looms over her. Her heart is drumming in her throat, and she gulps.

"I can change back and forth at will," the voice is the same, and he moves slightly closer. She instinctively presses her hand into his chest to keep him from approaching. His skin is scorching, but soft. Almost human. Coarse chest hair, and she gulps again. She wants to touch some more. "So you are scheduled for a flight on the dragon's neck. But first..." He leans into her, and his lips are an inch away from hers. She is holding her breath and sees his lashes flutter. Dragons are not supposed to have such lashes. He places one hand above her head on the bed post. He is huge, and his skin smells like black cardamom. "First we will take that spell off you."


	57. Five Fairytales: Snow White

2\. Snow White

The house in the forest is old, unkempt, moss covering on the walls, roof askew. There is some cozy air about it though, and the girl has been wondering for two days by now. She is cold, hungry, exhausted, and suspects her hair is full of pine needles and spider web. The first room she gets into is a dining room slash parlour. There is a fire place and seemingly a hundred armchairs. How many people live here, for Pete's sake? She quickly rummages through the house and finds the kitchen. Assorted bowls and cups, sparkly clean though, bread and an astonishing amount of cheese. By then all her decorum and palace manners are gone, and she quickly consumes an ostentatious amount of sarnies right at the kitchen table. Her princess scouts trainer used to say that one has to be careful and not eat too much after a long period of abstinence, but seriously, the bloke has never been hunted and his own stepmother probably never sent a killer after him to cut out his heart. Also, he was surprisingly cuter than the girl. Whatever they say about the current queen, no way in hell she is trying to end the girl in for the looks, and by the way the whole mirror thing? She is surely taking a piss! Throne succession rule on the other hand is a legit reason to have the girl's heart served to her in a mahogany box. A bit of an overkill, if you ask the princess, but horses to courses so to say.

In a small bedroom she finds seven beds, and later another five in separate rooms, and assumes that the inhabitants of the house are either children, or from some exotic country where everyone has been underfed for generations. She is 5'2'' and the beds are perfect. But she takes a li-lo in the parlour, because the inhabitants of the house are definitely blokes, and yuck. Just no.

Someone shakes her shoulder, and she wakes up with a shrieky scream. Yeah, the last few days seriously did a number on her nerves. The Dwarf who woke her up, and yeah, that's definitely a Dwarf, jumps away from her with an equally shrieky yelp. They are all standing around her, faces dirty and tired, and she rolls off the li-lo and dashes into the corner. She really should have stayed in the forest and let little animals nibble on her cold corpse. Anything is better than this!

"Chill, chill, we are not going to harm you…" Another of them approaches her, holding his hands in the air. The voice is soft, and damn, are Dwarves supposed to be fit? Because this one is as hot as fuck. She blinks, and he gives her a warm encouraging smile. "Hey… I am Kili, and you?" She starts shaking, and another fit Dwarf, seriously, what's with the hotness, puts his hand on the first one's shoulder.

"Hold your horses, brother, can't you see she is freaked out?" This one is blonde and sunny.

"What is she doing in our house?" The one who woke her up, straight fringe and freckles, asks another, older Dwarf. He sounds as scared as she feels.

"She is obviously lost, look how thinned she is. Poor wean," the older one with an ear trumpet smiles to her. "Are you hurt, child? I have herbs and bandages."

"Would you all step back! You are suffocating her!" The first dark-haired hottie turns to others.

"Enough," she hears the calm commanding tone from the corner, and all Dwarves step back and visibly shrink. Yeah, who is the boss here is quite obvious. He steps ahead, taller than the others, blue eyes cold and cantankerous, and she presses her back into the wall harder. "What is your name, my lady?" Perhaps, not the time for honesty. She has a bounty on her head.

"Snow… White..." God knows where that came from.

"Well, my lady, you owe us an explanation. Not every day we find a maiden in our parlour."

"I was lost in the forest, my family… they were eaten by… bears..." She is a lousy liar, and he cocks an eyebrow. But then she reaches the limit of her rope and starts bawling. "Please, don't kill me, please..."

"Mahal help me, someone give her a handkerchief," his voice is frightened. Men can't stand women's tears. Apparently Dwarves neither. She sobs louder. "We are not to harm you. Please, stop crying..." She adds howling into her weeping. Half of her bays is not sincere anymore, but men are simple. They all start fussing around her, offering her chair, food, water, fanning her with cushions hastily picked up from armchairs and sofas, and she realizes her situation is looking up.

Five months later she is nicely settled in the Dwarven house. There are mines in the nearby mountain, they work there all day. She cleans, cooks, packs them lunches, reads books, they have an astonishingly large library in the attic. They have a strange language, with throaty consonants, and she gives them nicknames in her head. Oin is Doc, Bofur is Happy, Ori is Bashful, Bifur is Dopey, Gloin is Sneezy, he has hayfever, which makes him even more of a grouch, but he adores her raspberry pies, so he is a putty in her hands, Bombur is Sleepy, he always is especially after food, Kili is Adorbs, Fili is Sunny, Balin and Dwalin don't get any, but out of all of them the brothers are her best mates… As for the leader of our company… Well, one doesn't get anymore grumpy than this. He allows her to stay but he doesn't seem happy about it. He is courteous though, and cold, and has the best table manners out of them. She is also head over heels with him, but that's a lost case. Altogether, if not for the inappropriate dreams that torture her almost every night in her narrow bed in the tiny cozy room they allocated for her, her life is ace.

Until the apple incident… Yeah, that sucked. Honestly, she was as much as dead to the Kingdom, what was the point? But wait, no, the apple wasn't the first aggro. The prince was. Gee, can a bloke be more puffed up? She is picking up mushrooms for Grumpy's favourite soup, and no, she hasn't learnt all his habits, and the prince saunters to her, all chestnut locks, white teeth and a cloak flailing in the wind.

The problem with immediate declarations of love and proposals is that she is not the best looking princess out of them. She is not a minger, but she is a ginger, skinny as a twig, no tits, and all together… Well, odd. The prick's passionate panting and lashes battering, and his are better than hers, can be explained only by her parentage and a cozy little throne waiting for her in the palace. He is standing on one knee in front of her, pouring some soppy nonsense at her, and she slowly backs up from him.

"What in the Mahal's name is this?" Grumpy's voice behind her is enraged, and she twirls on her heels.

"It's a prince. He is proposing. They always do. The disadvantages of being a princess." Is her jealous? He looks jealous. Oh, please let him be jealous.

"Get in the house, Snow." Grumpy twirls his pickax on his hand, and she swoons. Seriously, hot!

"Are you standing in the way of the true love, shorty?" The prince is outraged, they always are. Either exuberant, or outraged. They are never slightly dischuffed or intermediately entertained. Tossers.

The girl quickly heads home and throws over her shoulder, "You are not, by the way. I'm perfectly fine without that kind of loving, thank you very much." The last thing she sees is a small lopsided smirk from her favourite Dwarf, and he squares his shoulders. The prince looks alarmed.

Yeah, and then the apple… It tasted good by the way, but then someone turned off the light. The darkness she is floating in is grotty. Maybe dying wouldn't have been that bad. This is disgusting. She is gutted. Mostly, it would be nice to be sitting in the dining room, after a nice supper, and be mending a shirt or something, Dwarves quietly fixing their tools, some humming, some playing instruments quietly, and of course him, in his chair, pages of his book rustling. But alas. And then again, there is a possibility of being woken up with some daft prince's face hovering over you, all proud of himself and expecting you to be grateful and trembling with admiration. Wankers.

The dark world inside her head explodes with all colours of the rainbow, and she opens her eyes. Her lips are tingling, and warmth spreads into her hands and feet. Bugger, she's been snogged. She quickly closes her eyes again. She refuses, they can't make her.

"Snow, I can see your eyes moving under your lids," Grumpy's voice is sarcastic. Underneath his usual grouchy tone he sounds relieved too, and her eyes fly open. He is leaning over a glass coffin she is in. She will have to investigate it later. What a barmy arrangement. At the moment she is too preoccupied with exuberant happiness flooding her. And yes, she fucking has the right to be exuberant. She squeals, sit up and throws her arms around his neck. He guffaws.

"Oh, thank goodness!" She presses into him, and he cups the back of her head. Other Dwarves are beaming with happiness in a distance. She moves away from him a bit and looks into the blue eyes. "My name is Wren." He smiles to her and pulls her into a nice, long snog. Ace!


	58. Another AN

**My darlings!**

**The fairy tales turned out to be such a blast that I'm moving them into a separate fic "Fairytales from Under the Mountain"!**

**There are more to come:**

Sleeping Beauty

Little Red Riding Hood

Beauty and the Beast

Frog Prince

Little Mermaid

**If you can think of any more, please, let me know!**

**Love,**

**kkolmakov**


	59. Cloak and Dagger Part 2

**A/N: ****Please, read this author's note!**

**Firstly, this one is sort of a continuation of "Cloak and Dagger" Chapter #29, but it will have a completely different tone. While #29 was a comedy, a spoof on those love novels with a hench bloke on the cover and a half dressed maiden with a bosom heaving out of atlas bodice trembling in his arms in a very uncomfortable position (seriously, have you seen them? :D), this one will be a bit more realistic, still very dramatic, and "slightly" angsty (if you've read my stories before, you can assume how slight this "slightly" is :D).**

**Secondly, this one is eventually to contain smut but of very specific sort, it has to do with loss of virginity. Please, be informed! **

**Thirdly, I just wanted to write another chapter for "We Are Scattered in Time and Space" and realized that it seemed to be escaping from under my control when it was already 14,500 words long and still going. So I decided to chop it into chapters and post them one by one. **

**Here is the ****first**** one of them! Please, let me know if it is more convenient for you to read it if I convert into a separate story, and I will post the rest as an independent fic. Like I said, there is so much written already!**

Mr. John Thorington was standing his back to the room, his eyes on the drops of rain running down the glass, while the maid that let him into the sitting room left to call the host of the house. Mr. Thorington's fingers were locked behind his back, his shoulders tense, and his jaw tensed even more when the door behind him opened. He turned around and courteously bowed to the old man entering the parlour.

"Thorington," the old man's voice trembled, and a loud cough shook his body. He pressed a handkerchief to his lips, but not before Thorington noticed a scarlet drop on the man's lips.

"Lord Harlington."

Both men sat down, and John patiently waited for the older man to speak. The latter seemed lost in his thoughts, but then he shook his head and focused his sharp dark eyes on Thorington.

"I am a military man, John, I am not used to speaking ambiguously. I will be direct." Thorington nodded. He felt immense respect for Harlington, acutely aware of how the impending conversation was paining the old man. "In the current situation my family is at your mercy, John. After the public transgression of your brother and my granddaughter, all that can be done is..." The old man started coughing again, and John quickly got up to hand him a glass of water. Lord Harlington thanked him and drank it greedily. "Since these two mad children decided to make their love publicly known, and you have to know, John, I fully blame Wren..." The old man shook his head. "And myself. I have encouraged her insurgent views and all those suffragette meetings, she is a clever child, but she gets so passionate..." The old man trailed away, and Thorington kept silent for him to continue. The old man coughed into the handkerchief again and clenched his jaw. "I am certain it was her scheme from the start, to be seen with him in such compromising position, and I do not place any blame on your brother… I have been young once as well, John, and I remember the power women had over my will then. Women can make a fool of any of us..." Thorington smirked darkly. Sadly enough he shared Harligton's sentiment, although unknown to the old man he also placed the same judgment on himself. His brother was not the only man in his family having fallen under the spell of Wren Leary. "But with your brother's sudden death..." Harlington looked at John with sympathy, and Thorington lowered his eyes. The mourning period was almost over, but the emotional wound seemed to never possible to heal. All the family still felt shocked and devastated by Frederick's accident. He had always been an excellent rider, no one could imagine him to lose control over his colt. So many circumstances had to fall together for such tragedy to transpire, the sudden sound to frighten the otherwise calm horse, Frederic's boot to slip, and the belly band to snap! John felt there was some sort of a plot on the fate's part to slay his brother, and he felt anger rising in him every time he would think of it. Frederic did not deserve such destiny.

"With my brother's sudden death your granddaughter's honour is in my hands," John looked at Harlington with sympathy.

"No one knew which one of you two was with her in that carriage that night, John. He was seen and recognized, but I doubt even your mother can distinguish the two of you with certainty!" The old man's voice grew louder, but then he realized his own words. "I am sorry, John. That was unacceptable."

"Apology accepted, sir. And you are right, even Mother had trouble telling us apart. Your granddaughter though always could. I would immediately receive the coldest greeting as soon as I would enter a room." His tone was sarcastic, mostly because he was trying to silence the unwanted memories of that one time when Wren Leary mistook him for his brother. In the darkness of an alley, her slender body pressed to him, her arms wrapped around his neck, her soft passionate lips on his… Thorington frowned and reigned his emotions.

"I understand your meaning, John. The two of you indeed are not on the best of terms, and please believe me, I once again place all the blame on her. Her so called progressive views, her radical ideas… She is stubborn and temperamental, but I believe even she understands that to save her honour and my name she is to marry you now. And believe an old man, marriage is rarely built on mutual adoration and hardly depends on such emotions."

Thorington felt strange tug at his heart. While the scandal and rumours were raging through the society he obviously assumed that such solution might come to light but now, once it was put into words he felt strange apprehension. John Thorington was a person of determined will and inner strength, and always strove to be honest with himself. He had to confess at least to himself that his upcoming marriage to Miss Wren Leary made his so distressed not because it was unwanted, but quite the opposite. But if he were earnest with himself he had to admit he would have wanted her to enter it willingly, to choose him over his brother and submit to him, as opposed to be forced into it. He also knew that she would agree. To pacify and make her ill grandfather content she would agree on anything. Thorington clenched a fist on the armrest of the sofa, nodded curtly, and the decision was made.

**XXX**

Even though John expected his wedding night to become a nightmare, he hardly anticipated the scale of the calamity he was to endure. He opened the door to his marital bedroom, and since his bride refused to have anything to do with establishing their new household all the decisions were made by his sister, who out of her own understanding and, as John suspects, vengeful strictness had ordered only one bedroom to be organized in his house, and once his eyes fell on his young wife he froze on the threshold. Firstly, candles were burning bright in the bedroom. It was John's understanding that he was to find the room dark and to approach the bed blindly groping in the dark. His wife was to be lying motionless under the covers, dressed in her nightgown, and the further proceedings were to transpire quickly and unpleasantly for both sides. John was familiar with the latest medical opinion on what had always been perceived as the man's right on their wife's body. A man was expected to demand his marital right at least two times a week, for the sake of sustaining his good health, having acquired full ownership over his wife legally and physically. He also understood that most women were completely uneducated on these matters, and he was prepared to be patient with his blushing wife.

Miss Wren Leary and now Mrs. John Thorington was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in a nightdress and a robe, her flaming copper curls scattered on her shoulders, her face haughty and apprehensive. He made a few uncertain steps inside, and she scornfully exhaled.

"Are you intending to spend your wedding night standing up, Mr. Thorington?" Her tone was venomous, and he felt his temper rising. He acutely realized that since the day he saw her for the first time they have hardly exchanged any friendly words. They argued during public gatherings on women's rights, they insulted each other in private conversations, he would insinuate she was of loose morals, she degraded him comparing him to his brother. Since the decision was made for them to marry she quite obviously decided to give him silent treatment, he was so engaged that it seemed rather favourable to him. They hastily married to silence rumours, and now he was standing in front of her in his night shirt and breeches and felt completely lost.

"Are you aware of what is to transpire between us now, Mr. Thorington?" Her tone was almost bored, and he suddenly found himself laughing loudly in the dim bedroom of his new married household. He was the one to ask such question. She looked at him in confusion, and her delicate nose twitched in disdain.

He sat on the bed near her and gave her an attentive look over. "Something tells me, Mrs. Thorington, that unlike most of your sisters," he purposefully used the suffragette term and saw her nostrils flare, "You are rather knowledgeable in this area."

"Unlike most people in contemporary society I do not consider carnal matters a prerogative of men. And education is a virtue, Mr. Thorington." Her tone was meant to hurt, and it did. But not for the reason she thought. His fists clenched, and white rage filled him. All he could think was that he was evidently not to be the first man to possess her body, and he suddenly imagined slapping her across her pale face. And then he immediately felt nauseated from this thought. It was his own fault, he desired her so much that he decided to marry her despite her loose behaviour, her views and her obvious inappropriateness. He had a price to pay. He took a deep breath in and closed his eyes. The small triumphant voice in his head he had heard all through this day, praising him for finally making her his, for obtaining her into his possession, submitting her into his ownership, had faded away, and he realized that she would never be his. He was unfortunate to fall in love with her, with her temper and her rebellious nature, her stubbornly lifted chin and sharp words that made the men and women of the class wince. Had he been in love with her looks, he would have ignored the heart and mind behind them like most men did these days, but he was out of his luck. He opened his eyes and looked at her, seemingly for the first time. Feverish blush burning on her cheekbones, her small hands fisted on her knees, slanted green eyes widened, pupils dilated, she was as beautiful to him as a woman could be for a man whose heart she possessed, and suddenly he realized he had been defeated.

"Wren," his voice broke, and he saw her eyebrows jump up, he had never addressed her by her name before, "I am aware of what happens between a husband and wife at their wedding night, and any given night afterwards for that matter, but..." He felt strange tension in his chest and took another deep breath, "But I abnegate my right for the marital duties on your part." He watched her lips open slightly, and she looked at him in shock. The strange tension he felt seemed to have spilled into the air in the room. Suddenly a grimace of fury ran across her face.

"Are you expecting me to be grateful for this?" She hissed, and he saw her hand twitch as if she was fighting an urge to slap him herself. "You do not have any right over any of my duties!" She spit the last word, and he saw her shoulders shake. "I am not a commodity, Mr. Thorington, I am not your horse, I am not furniture or a carpet. I am a living human being, and..." She choked on her words, and suddenly he realized she was scared. Her small frail body was shaking, her lips were white, and he saw with all possible clarity she was fighting tears.

At that moment perhaps for the first time in his life John tried to see the circumstances he was in from another person's point of view. How terrifying, humiliating and degrading such situation must have been to her! She buried a man she loved without a right to mourn him openly, she was forced in a marriage with another bearing the face of her dead beloved, she was expected to perform duties that were endlessly disgusting to her both personally and intellectually, and he was making clever comments!

He jumped on his feet and stepped back from her. She wasn't looking at him, her eyes fixed on some spot on the wall in front of her, and if he had any doubts that he was being a monster of her worst nightmares they quickly disappeared when a single tear ran down her cheek. He rushed out of the bedroom into his study and slammed the door behind him. His whole body was shaking, and he filled a glass with sherry. He toppled the tangy drink into his throat and started coughing. Some strange headache was clenching on his temples, and he pressed his back to the door. He had just become the executor to the woman he loved.


	60. Can-can

**For ****Wynni**

**1\. stein, 2. can-can, 3. nacho, 4. incense, 5. munchkin**

**[200 words]**

**Smut**

His eyes are giant. "What do you mean you are a virgin?!" His hand is literally in your knickers, you just decided to warn him. "Don't get me wrong, Wren, but you hardly look like a nun. Last week you danced can-can on the table in a pub!"

"Thea poured a stein of lager into me, and I only let her because those nachos were so bloody spicy!" He carefully pulls his hand back, and you whine from disappointment. You both are pretty much starkers, and yum, the chest! And it was ace, romantic even, no rubbish like incense or champagne in a bath, but a nice dinner, a walk…

"Wren, I'm not bloody popping your cherry after a week of dating you!"

"You've known me for years!"

"I went to uni with your mom! I played _Munchkin_ with you!" You lunge and cup his crotch.

"I'm 23! I want it! I'm sober and sane, I fancy you, stick your cock into me!"

"No!" He squeaks and rolls off the li-lo. "Especially not after the words _stick your cock into me_!" You are pouting, he gives you a look over, and makes up his mind. "We are dating for another couple weeks, until then just oral sex." Fair enough.

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See new and improved instructions in chapter 40.**

**Please, leave ****the prompts in the reviews****, PM service here is driving me bonkers :D**


	61. Cotton Candy

**For Just4Me**

**1\. volcano, 2. finial, 3. sheet music, 4. cotton candy, 5. pillow**

**A/N: Darling, you didn't give me the word count so I went with 200 words, as it seems to be most popular.**

**And becasue it is for you, my lovely Just4Me, he of course needs to guffaw :)**

You grab a pillow and hurl it into his head. He guffaws and flails his arms to block your attack. You grab another one and start whacking him to the head. He is laughing, white teeth gleaming, crow's feet in the corners of his amazing cerulean eyes. "No, no, I refuse! You are not proposing to me, when my face is literally sticky from cotton candy, and I'm wearing your old uni tee! I survived you asking me out on our first date with a sheet music and a Volcano Choir CD, I didn't say anything when you offered me to move in together by presenting me with a finial and an umbrella stand in a shape of a giant daft owl, I'm not telling my future children that you proposed to me wearing pants, on our sofa, watching "The Hobbit" for a hundredth time, covered in popcorn and sweets, with my hair in a bun, pinned with two pencils! Get out of the room, think about your behaviour, come back and do it again properly!" He is roaring with laughter on the carpet where you pushed him, and you jump on him. "Yes, you duffus, of course I will marry you!"

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See new and improved instructions in chapter 40.**

**Please, leave ****the prompts in the reviews****, PM service here is driving me bonkers :D**


	62. Oliphaunt

**For GuestReaderA**

**1\. oliphaunt (sp?), 2. tango, 3. nap, 4. unrelenting, 5. Bali**

**[200 words] **

**Smut**

**A/N: My darling, what is "sp?" actually? I spend 15 minutes staring at my screen but didn't decode your message :) So I apologise if I went somewhere absolutely wrong with the poor oliphaunt :)**

You wake up from the vibration of your mobile under your pillow. Half conscious you pick up and hear Thea hysterical yelling, "Wrennie, it was the Oliphaunt of Jandelay, can you even imagine this?!" You get it, you were into _Pathfinder_ till last year, but it's bloody 3 o'clock at night. You sympathetically listen to her squawking, yawning and humming supportively, when you feel a pair of familiar lips on some sensitive parts of your anatomy. You pick up the corner of the blanket and peek in. Yep, someone woke up from his nap, and a long index finger slides inside you. You try to wiggle away, not very convincingly though, but he is unrelenting. His tongue swirls over your clit, and you remember that one time during your honeymoon at Bali. Honestly, people like you shouldn't be allowed into tango classes. Good thing, they had a back door. Being arrested during your honeymoon for public indecency is just too much of a cliche! His second hand slides under your buttock, and he adds another finger. You are biting your lip, Thea on the line long forgotten. When you moan, he blindly grabs the phone and hangs up for you.

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See new and improved instructions in chapter 40.**

**Please, leave ****the prompts in the reviews****, PM service here is driving me bonkers :D**


	63. Ragdoll

**For RagdollPrincess**

**1\. ragdoll cat, 2. mirror, 3. nightmare, 4. upside down, 5. pickle**

**[100 words]**

"It was a nightmare!" Thea is wildly gesticulating with her fork. "It was all wrinkly, sad looking, like an upside down pickle!" You didn't know pickles had up and down. She points at some unsuspecting bloke at the next table, "Look at this one! Like a ragdoll cat, dark muzzle, silky fur, blue eyes. My date was a Sphynx." You smile to her victim apologetically, and his face mirrors your expression. She keeps on talking, and you write your number on a napkin and slide it to him. He quickly enters it into his mobile. His first text says, "Hi. I'm John."

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See new and improved instructions in chapter 40.**

**Please, leave ****the prompts in the reviews****, PM service here is driving me bonkers :D**


	64. Do You Tango?

**A/N: Alrighty, what happened is this:**

**Just4Me ****said it was impossible to stop thinking about RA/John doing tango after one of my latest five word prompts, ****Iamje ****asked for a fic where John would dance because we all know that RA can do it and even was in **_**Cats**_**, and then I saw his photo in a white shirt and those bloody black trousers (oh my ovaries! :D) from the Esquire Magazine photoshoot, and there was a caption there: "You can still see he is a dancer in the way he moves."**

**How can I stay away from it? :D So it's 3 a.m. and I'm still typing O_o**

"Leary, step into my office!" Bloody fuck, that's not good. You don't want to step into Detective Inspector Grey's office, it never yields good results.

You come in and tuck yourself on one of the uncomfortable chairs. He is flipping through something that looks suspiciously like your personal file. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

"So privileged childhood, Leary, and now all of a sudden a police officer. Perfect score in shooting practice, and yet you are pushing papers in the office. How do you explain such contradictions, my dear?"

Well, 'my dear' hopefully means you are not in too much barney. His icy grey eyes are sparkling warm-heartedly, and you smile.

"I've always wanted to be a copper."

"And now you are a lid? That is slightly below your 160 IQ and the best firearms training results in the division. Not enough ambitions?" Yeah, ambitions are no problem. You are ickle and had a back injury, you'll stay a lid till the day some random bomb under your panda car blows you to bits. But it's all in the file, why is he even asking? "You see, my darling, I need an officer with a very specific set of skills, and it seems that you are our best choice. But I need to know you are up for it."

Bloody hell, of course you are up for it! You prim up on the sodding chair, and he smiles, "Do you happen to have a fancy dress, my dear?"

XXX

All you can say about your first, wonderful undercover operation is "fucking sod it". It has three main elements, and each one of them has been substantially covered in your conversations with your psychologist through your lovely privileged adolescent years. You are to dance, and you have stage fright, you are to look sexy, and your self esteem is as high as the deepest of moats around your parents' castle, and yes, they bloody have a castle. You have emancipated from them fourteen years ago, you don't give a fuck. And number three is you are a very patient person, you build relationships well, you are diplomatic, but once in a while you happen to have... let's call it a glitch, and out of two hundred people there will be that one person whom you'd happily end in with a spoon. One doesn't need to be Dr. Freud to recognize a pattern. The persons you happen to be allergic to, as your friend Thea puts it, are usually male, attractive, self-assured and wankers. Cantankerous, narcissistic, chauvinistic wankers. Cue exhibit A. Detective Thorington. Six foot four, a body of a Greek god, not Apollo, more of a Hephaestus, no limp, though you'd love to give him one, elegant hands, and no, you didn't look, and the best "collars" in the divisions. And he is every bit as stubborn and self-centered as they make them somewhere in Wankerville.

He looks good in a white shirt and the bloody perfectly cut trousers. Oh, did you forget to mention that unlike you he is completely comfortable with his ancestry and his family tree that is as old and as big as Bowthorpe Oak? He wears cufflinks at work! Cufflinks! Conceited, puffed up, inconceivable…

"Leary, are you asleep?" His tone is grumpy. And yes, you are going to use this term towards this gorgeous specimen, because that it is exactly what he is, a grump and a grouch! And a tosser! You gulp and check your makeup in the mirror again. "Stop fretting, Leary, you look fine." Fine? Oh you sodding arsehole! It is a bloody Dior, a perfect little black dress, slanted hem, you are even wearing heels, your makeup is all sexy and provocative, your eyes are slowly being dissolved by all this disgusting paint on your lids, mascara makes you feel like your lashes can create turbulence, and for once your daft hair is styled as opposed to your usual braid at the back. You are making an effort here! What an ungrateful fuck.

OK, the plan is simple, it's a tango club, you come in, attract everyone's attention with your passionate dancing, miserably fail, because the only passionate desire you have at the moment is to clobber him to the head with your Jimmy Choo and rush home to wash off the bloody makeup. Oh, and then you apprehend a drug baron and everybody gets a promotion. Easy peasy.

He steps out of the police van and throws his jacket over his shoulder. You climb out, and of course you just had to stumble. He grabs you under your elbow. "Seriously, Leary, what was Grey thinking? Two left feet, and a ginger. A mop handle has more charm than you! You are supposed to be fit and mind-blowing and distract all men there!" He gives you a disdainful look over, and you see red. You want mind-blowing, wanker? You'll get mind-blowing!

XXX

You pretend to be sipping your drinks, you are having a virgin mojito, you can't drink, and his eyes are running around the club. Wanker or not, he is an excellent detective. You hate his guts. And no, you haven't noticed how nice his chest looks in this shirt. Bugger.

He steps on the dance floor, tugging you after him, and you dig your heels into the floor. He turns to no doubt hiss at you, and you lift one brow. We have already started dancing, you tosser. Something changes in his eyes, and he throws your hand aside as if in disgust. And then he twirls and makes a few perfectly measured steps away from you. Damn, these buttocks! Concentrate, Wren! You throw your body ahead, slide along the floor, almost flying, and slam your body into his back, wrapping your arms around his waist. You will think about the magic this created in your fanny when the baron is arrested, you are home and your vibrator's batteries are charged. Damn, you haven't had a proper shag in two years.

He grabs your hands, and you slide your bend leg up his thigh and brush your knee to his arse. My oh my… Later, Wren, later, all thoughts later. He squeezes one of your hands in his and twirls you. You give him three full turns, he said you are not fit! He catches your hand again, and you fall all the way back, fully trusting him with your weight. He doesn't disappoint, he locks your clasped hands and lifts them, pretty much stretching you flush along his body, he is so bloody big! You bend your leg, hike it up on his waist, another one straight, along his, gee, that's an unnatural ratio of legs and torso, and he swirls you one and a half turn, and then straightens up and bends you backwards. Remember the back injury? Well, you can't run for long and can't lift heavy stuff, but this? This you are good at! You do a lot of yoga. Momentarily the world is upside down, and then he jerks you up, your hands lie in his, and you start the sequence of steps. By then the whole club is staring at you.

You do look good together, he is tall, wide, heavy but it's all muscles, damn his muscles, black trousers, white shirt, an exotic ponytail, ebony and silver in his hair, you are a flaming ginger, and also you are livid! One can probably light a cigarette from you! You are fuming! If tango allowed kicking he'd be bent in half holding on to his wedding vegetables. But unfortunately it's not NRW, it's a dance. And damn he is good! At some point he twirls you couple times and then lets go, allowing you pretty much kneel in front of him, he is looming, and you slide your palm over his leg in a pleading submissive gesture, but simultaneously you lick your lips. Did you mention the red lipstick? Yeah… He grabs your hand, as if in disdain, tango is all about acting, and pushes it away, steps back, you rise, and now it is your turn to be the predator. He is retreating, you are prowling towards him. You might be skinny, but the magic of hips is not about a curve, it is about imagining what you are going to do with your prey once you catch it, and you have a very vivid imagination!

One, two, three, he suddenly stops, and slides on the floor on one knee. You immediately turn around, the hunt has lost its charm, and you sense him move, and suddenly one of his massive arms snakes around your middle, and he pulls you flush to his body. He leans in and his lips brush your ear. You are so buzzed that you stopped understanding where your acting stops and where your just being randy starts. He pushes your leg with his from behind, and pretty much start fully controlling your movement, his legs pressed to yours, his arm around your ribcage. You allow a few steps like that, and then try to twist out of his grasp. His other hand lies on your throat, and you submit. By then you are the only pair on the dance floor.

He releases you, and it is time to execute your revenge. Both your tango counterpart needs to establish her independence, and you need to stick it up to him! Not mind-blowing my arse! You continue walking in front of him, as of still allowing him to dictate the steps, and they you pick up speed and now it looks that the last few steps you are making are taking you from him and towards some bloke sitting at a table. You honestly don't even see what he looks like but you concentrate all the heat that accumulated in your body on that one punter, and seriously, is Thorington running a fever? He is scorching! You fix your eyes on the face of the poor chap who deftly chokes on his drink and in one last gliding step you move to his table, arch and place your palms in front of him.

Thorington grabs your elbows and then does that move that is super dangerous, one chick in your dance school actually dislocated a spinal disc doing it. It's when a partner spins you pretty much over his arm. He places his splayed palm on your nape, and then twists his arm over your head, as if trying to snap your neck, turns you and you bend backwards, all your weight supported by his palm between your shoulder blades. You need to do it with a partner you trust and you need a lot of practice.

His palm is scorching, goosebumps run down your spine, and there is this moment when the world freezes and all your can see and feel is Detective John Thorington. He leads your whole body around his arm, your eyes meet for a nanosecond, and you fully relax, submit and accept his surrender, because tango is all about giving and taking, and fighting and letting another one win, and kaboom, your body is arched and his hot hand is your only link to reality.

He then moves, wraps the second one around you, supporting you and helping you to straighten up in a graceful fluid motion, and pulls you into him, all passion and tenderness, all his previous fake anger gone, and you jump up and your knees go on his bent leg, and you nest comfortable on his lap like a bird on a branch while his second leg is straight and stretched in a perfect black line.

The club starts cheering and clapping, and you slide off him, not forgetting to brush your palms over his pectoral muscles. Firstly, according to your legend you are married, secondly, you can indulge yourself just a bit, right?

XXX

Eventually there is still shots fired. A bullet grazes his upper arm, and you knock the goon with the handle of your gun. Good thing the plonker is short. Thorington is sitting on a bench, a medic is bandaging his arm.

"Pity about the shirt, looked good," your teeth are chattering. You are coming down from the adrenaline, it is also nippy, and you are not wearing much, let's face it. They give you a blanket, and you wrap it around your shoulders.

"You did well, Leary," his blue eyes are twinkling with smile, and you make a scornful noise.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Detective." And then he guffaws. Apparently the posh toff can laugh.

"Don't snarl at me, Leary. I just said what needed to be said to get you into the mood. See how well it all worked out?" What a puffed up wanker!

You turn around to leave, when he gently touches your arm.

"Common, Leary, let's have a drink. We have a lot to celebrate."

"I'd rather not," you can't come up with any snarky reply so you just start walking away. You make one step, seriously, one, and he grabs your arm and jerks you back to him. You get your lungs full of air to yell at him about treating a woman like a commodity and manhandling her like a sack of potatoes but he gives you puppy eyes, and you choke on your dignified speech.

"Don't run away, Leary, it's not fair, I can't run after you." Oh, right, he got hit with a pipe under his knee. You twitch your nose, and he pulls you towards him. You are standing between his spread knees, and seriously, is he hiding a furnace under this shirt?

"Wren," you didn't realize he even remembered your first name, "I strongly believe you have more charm than a mop handle, you definitely have one left and one right foot, I love that you are a ginger and you are the most fit woman I have ever met. Please, have a drink with me?" You keep your face cold, while your mind is torn between two possible answers in panic, and then he gives you a lopsided grin. "And I will need help to get out of this shirt. They froze my shoulder." You growl and start walking away.

"Leary, come back!" He yells, and everyone, officers and medics, turns to listen to your exchange. Bugger, bugger, bugger! "Common, we obviously click. No one dances like that the first time! I saw you stare at my chest, it'll be easier to do when the shirt is off!"

You turn around sharply and give him a middle finger. He guffaws. You both know it's not the end, but right now you are going home. You need a bath, and he needs to learn how to talk to a woman.


	65. Sneaky

**For Just4Me**

**1\. teeny-weeny, 2. surreal, 3. crow, 4. sneaky, 5. apologize**

**[200 words]**

You apologize and start slowly backing up from the group of people amicably chatting on the lawn. You hate engagement parties. Especially the engagement parties of your exes. As in their mutual engagement. You just need to be sneaky and slowly make your way towards the house, through the back door, and to the cab. The whole experience is surreal, and there is a teeny-weeny element of humiliation in it. Like about 98% of all your emotions at the moment are humiliation. Your back hits someone, and it's the groom's uncle. Shite. All tall, dark and gorgeous. "Enjoying the party, Miss Leary?" Judging by his tone, he knows the answer. You jerk your chin up. He hands you a flute. "It's the toast time." Wanker, is he enjoying it? He leans to your ear. "It's sparkly grape juice, and I said I'd say a toast instead of you." You stare at him. "I can distract them after so you can run." Maybe not so much of a wanker. You give him a grateful smile, and he smiles back, adorable crow's feet in the corner of his eyes. "Can I also have your number while we are at it, please?"

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See new and improved instructions in chapter 40.**

**Please, leave ****the prompts in the reviews****, PM service here is driving me bonkers :D**


	66. I Won't Dance, Don't Ask Me

**A/N: This one is the continuation of "Do You Tango?" #64 and sort of an intermediate piece to the next chapter, which I am very fond of. Reviews are highly valued and anticipated! :)**

You are sitting on your li-lo, finishing the pack of Jammy Dodgers, when your phone rings. Thea, your best friend and the most mental lingerie salesperson there is in this hemisphere, is yelling into your ear, "Is Thorington a tall hunk with a ponytail, an arse to die for and supposedly a harem of wifelets in the guest cottages around his parents' mansion?"

"Are you reading gossip online again, Thea? And hello to you by the way."

"Shut up, Wren. And yes, I am doing research on your dance partner." You groan. You really shouldn't have told her anything. "And there are photos, my friend… And what do you think I have to say to you?"

"I bet it is something about his thoughtful eyes or generous charity work."

"You are a massive idiot, Wren, that's what I have to say to you! A daft, daft bird! The bloke wanted to take you for a drink, obviously it would end with proper knobbing, and God help me, Wren, you need it."

"Well, you weren't there, Thea. I get it you are all for using men like dildos attached to your favourite buttocks, and forgetting them the next morning, but even after such nonchalant shag I'd still feel like he used me like a tissue. Beside God knows how many other tissues he had used that week. Yuck." You pop the last biscuit into your mouth and crunch.

"Wrennie, who cares that he is a wolf? You need a shag, he is good at it, and there will be none of that manky whining in the morning!" She starts imitating a masculine yet annoyingly soppy voice. "Am I going to see you again, Thea? Was it good for you, Thea?" And then she adds in her normal voice, "Pillocks." You laugh and consequently choke on the Jammy Dodger.

"Thea, you know I'm not good at it. I'd either freak out in the morning and it'd be endlessly awkward, or even freak out in the middle of a shag, when his hand would be in my knickers or something, and I'd never hear the end of it. And we work together, sort of, he is in a different division. And I think he'd be wagging about it all over the force. Imagine if I embarrass myself in bed and then every copper in the city learns about it. Did I tell you how he yelled to me that it'd be easier for me to ogle his chest if he weren't wearing a shirt?"

"And were you ogling his chest?"

"You have the photos in front of you, Thea. What do you think?"

XXX

Out of all your mental relatives you keep in touch only with your great aunt, Muriel. She is batty, but you prefer the term eccentric, after all, let's face it, you yourself aren't the acest of the heiresses of toff families here. You never go to any of her famous dos, there is always a chance to meet some of your close kin, and fuck no to that. This year you are attending her birthday celebration though, she is 70, and you owe her those few sane moments you had in your childhood. It is also a costume party, and it's 1920s. The Roaring Twenties, and you look fit as fuck in a flapper dress. You have the right body shape, that of an ice cream stick, no tits, and you are ickle. You have the dress, it's vintage, champagne colour and glittery, and a hell of a headband, ivory, peacock feather. As they used to say in those glorious years, cat's meow!

And besides tango, that you are not dancing again any time soon, you are brill at charleston. It has always been your favourite dance. Just something about those quick steps, stuck out fingers, the click of your heels, and hotsy-totsy indeed! OK, maybe you should cut down on the slang a bit.

The party is ace. It's very _Great Gatsb_y, Aunt Muriel is filthy rich, and she obviously decided to have all the bloody fun in the world in one night. The Bentley rotating at the center of the dance floor is especially posh! It's even 6.5 litre, and you are standing admiring it when the voice you least want to hear right now purrs behind you.

"Evening, Leary. Ogling the breezer?" Fuck, he looks good. A dark stripy three piece suit, brown shoes, extra tall collar, bugger, not again, white shirt, a dotted tie. Pretty much Redford in _Gatsby _but you never liked blondes. His dark hair is in a ponytail, but the front is styled just right. Pretty much what you did. Flapper or not, you couldn't cut off your mane for a bob, so you just pinned it at the back and left just the perfect wave above your face. He is so smug that you immediately go into defensive mode. Gee, by your age a chick should really learn to stay cool in front of wankers like him.

"Evening, Detective."

"Why all the formalities, doll?" Oh, you hate him so much right now. Especially the sexy like fuck lopsided smirk. He wants slang? He'll get slang.

"Dry up, bimbo." You turn on your heels and march from him. Your triumph is slightly arsed up by his chuffed chuckling behind you.

XXX

Obviously you end up dancing together. The very first charleston that pops up is for the two of you. Since most of those present at the party know you two, when he leads you on the dance floor, everyone else moves away, and Aunt Muriel happily laughs and claps her hands.

You have two choices, one is to be a Billy no-mates and do some half-arsed wiggles, or you can enjoy the fact that a fit six feet four bloke who can throw you across the room with one arm is dancing with you. And you are not daft! You give him the very tips of your fingers, and the two of you hit it!

And yes, you love the slang, and dancing with Thorington is bee's knees! He is surprisingly light on his feet for a hench bloke of his size, he is jumping as if there is trampoline underneath him at all times, his movements are endlessly precise, and then again, you can trust him with your body! Not in that way, gee, but as in pick up, throw and catch. The kicks, the flappers, the Johnny's drop and the Freezes! Oh yeah!

Something you understood last time you danced together, he has an amazing intuition when it comes to his partner. And you are totally not bloody wondering if he clicks like that with all chicks! But he seems to always know where you are heading, and then he flips you and plays on your moves, and makes you look so much better! And he is not showing off. At some point he steps back, and that's your solo time, and your fingers are sticking out from your body just the right way, and damn, you know he is behind you, he is so damn hot, and then his hands lie on your waist, and you greet him with a smile over your shoulder. He falls on his back in a perfect round move, you are on top, he flips you, and then you are holding his hands in yours and are supposed to help him to get up from lying on his back into a standing position, and seriously you didn't even do anything, and he is like Jack-in-a-box. Damn, you are so not thinking about all this stamina and muscles properly applied between the sheets. Bugger. You two do tandem savoy kicks, your favourite, the tips of your fingers gently held between his, and then he lunges ahead, wraps his arm around your back from behind and swirls you around his body. You feel like chocolate syrup being poured around a sundae in a septic cafe, and you start shaking.

He steps back, you do a handstand in front of him, he bends down a bit, what a considerate wanker, your legs lie on his shoulders, he picks you up, you repeat the Chocolate Syrup, and yes, that's how you are now calling this slithering around his body, as if you are licking him with every inch of your skin, and eventually he picks you up bridal style and starts swirling. And that's when you realize he is not dancing anymore, although the music is still going, he is just swirling with you in his arms, and you freak out, push away from him, and after an almost unnoticeable pause he lets you go down. And the song stops. People are clapping and cheering, and you are so bend out of shape at the moment, so after the appropriate time of bowing and smiling you rush to the nearest table and topple a flute of champagne into your empty stomach. The effect is devastating. The ball room immediately looks like Gary Glitter's best stage jacket, and you lean back at the edge of the table.

"And I thought you don't drink, Leary." You don't turn to his voice and wait for the real bladderedness to kick in. The sheer fact that you have just invented the word bladderedness is an alarming symptom. He chuckles and leans at the same table, his shoulder almost touching yours, and takes a sip from his flute. "Do you even know why you are pissed off at me?"

"You are a wanker." Repeat after yourself, Wrennie my girl, he is a wanker, he is a wanker, it is just hormones, you just want to shag him until he falls back into the sheets, weak and trembling, with a grateful smile of his lips. Wow, no more champagne for this one. That was way too graphic. Your mind deftly shoves a much more graphic picture into your inner vision, of him standing at a wall in the same relaxed pose he is in right now, sipping his fizz, and you are on your knees in front of him… Shush, fanny, let's go home. There is our good old buzzing friend waiting for us in a bedside table, and we won't even need any fanfiction tonight.

"That I am," he agrees in a warm velvet voice, and you imagine licking his neck. Abort mission, abort mission! He suddenly turns, and his face is right in front of you. You can see the crow's feet and the thick black lashes. "And after that night with tango twice as often as before." You blink. Did he just?... Did you understand?... What…? "Go home, Leary, you are drunk." Here we go, here is the good old cold wanker tone, but it's not working anymore. Not after your body was pressed into his again, and you know how he smells. You are industriously trying to form a proper sentence in your head that would delegate the idea that you decided that the two of you need to shag. Like right now. And then he grabs you under your arm and drags you outside. You two are followed by a few wolf whistles, and on his way he shortly apologizes to Aunt Muriel. She smiles like a cat that got the cream. And a wee bit of milk, cheese, sour cream, yogurt, kefir and greek yogurt. Outside he whistles, a cab stops, and he gently deposits you inside. He is not getting in, and you are staring at him. He leans into the open door and smiles.

"Promise me we'll dance again, Leary." His voice drops even lower, and there is something in his tone that makes you nod weakly. He nods too and smacks the door closed. You lower the window, and he leans again.

"Can I have a goodnight kiss?" Your tone is innocent, but you are tired of fighting with yourself. He brushes his lips to yours, and in your head it's the Fourth of July you once saw in Washington when on an exchange in uni.

"Night, Leary. Remember, that's not the last dance." He shoves some bills to the cabbie, and the car starts moving. You turn around and watch his wide back disappear inside the mansion.


	67. With a Bullet and a Kiss

**A/N: ****My lovelies****, this story is best read after "Do You Tango?" and "I Won't Dance, Don't Ask Me" from "We Are Scattered in Time in Space" # 64 and #66. Having read them, you'll get just a wee bit more out of this one, but as usual no pressure :)**

**Parts 2 and 3 have ****glossaries**** after them, please throw a glance at them. Again, just for a wee bit more fun in part 4 :)**

**I feel like I'm being a bit anal with this one, but I just like it so much myself, which is rare for me, I'm normally 47.5% satisfied with my writing, so forgive me? :D **

WITH A BULLET AND A KISS

_It's only forever, not long at all…_

("Underground" by David Bowie)

1.

**May 10th, 1756**

**A day before the Battle of Fontenoy, King George's War **

**Tournai, present day Belgium**

Captain John Thorington was torn between two feelings, the ingrained into him sense of propriety, drilled into his character through the years of his privileged upbringing, and the temper he had inherited from all the knights and warriors in his ancestry. And jealousy, there was plenty of jealousy splashing in his mind. He could hear raised voices from the tent that belonged to Lieutenant Anderson, and all he could do is clench his fists and smoke angrily. Soon the tent moved, and he saw Anderson's wife, nee Leary rush outside. She was carrying a small modest suitcase, and she was more beautiful than Captain had ever seen. her. Other officers and even some of the soldiers would often prattle that they could not understand what such dashing, attractive and respected officer as Lieutenant August Anderson would find in this small, rather odd, freckled redhead. Thorington could. And he hated himself for it. For the jealousy that made him grind his teeth, for the lustful dreams, for the times she would catch him unable to tear his eyes of her. She was indeed generally considered unattractive, but for Captain she was a Venus. He adored and desired everything about her, from small strong hands to wilful, stubborn character, from the feminine little curls that escaped her do at her neck to her habit to give him a sarcastic look when she considered his orders unreasonable. Anderson married Wren Leary without asking his Colonel's permission, but everyone's adoration towards him and his father's money had gotten him out of this trouble. And that started Thorington's personal hell. She would have dinner with other officers' wives in the tent shared by the officers and their families, in an elegant grey dress, with a red carnation pinned to her hair, and Thorington would flee. She played piano rather decently, and he couldn't stop staring at her small fingers. But Anderson was his best officer and the honour of a British officer wouldn't let Captain to even consider any sort of improvement of his torturous situation.

He didn't get a chance to ask Anderson of what had transpired between them, as the battle started, and just two hours into the military action a French bullet pierced Anderson's heart. He died immediately, and Thorington had other matters to attend.

In the middle of the battle he was barking orders to soldiers moving heavily wounded to the abandoned house in the nearby village, when he saw a swoosh of bright copper curls, and he realized that he was looking at none other but the widow of Lieutenant Anderson. He rushed to her when a cannon exploded the ground just a few hundreds feet away. She fell, and he picked her up. Her slender arms wrapped around his neck, and she muttered, "Where is he? Where is August?"

He placed her on a safe spot behind a half ruined wall of some barn and yelled at her, "Are you mad, Wren?" He didn't know himself why he was addressing her by her name. "What are you doing here?"

"I came back, I need to see him, he needs to give me the papers!" He stared at her like at a madman. She was pale but didn't cry. She jerked her chin up. "He threw me out, but I need the marriage certificate. I need the proof that my child is not illegitimate!"

He looked at her minuscule waist and decided that even that didn't matter. "He is dead, Wren. Killed a few hours ago, a bullet right through the heart."

He knew that was the moment of truth. He was watching her face with intense, greedy attention. She frowned, and her eyes went glassy. "So it is over… My life is over… I am a fallen woman now… He threatened me… Said he would destroy the certificate, to make me a harlot that I am, and he did… He ruined me..."

"Wren, look at me! What are you talking about?"

"He accused me of an affair, although he himself hadn't been much of a loyal husband as you probably know..." Thorington did. And he had never understood. To have her and to seek other women, he simply could not conceive it. Her tone was sarcastic, which didn't match the dead hollow expression on her face. "He demanded me to go back to England to my family, and I asked if I could say I was a widow… And he laughed into my face… I came back to look for the certificate, and then I saw that all the tents are burnt, and he was my only hope... I was planning to demand him to ensure my child's right for his name..."

"Wren..." Cannons started a new wave, and he had no time for it. But for once in his life his heart made a decision over his mind. "Wren, I will go to the court with you. I know you are worried about the name for your child, but I will witness your claims." She looked at him in confusion. "When the war is over, I will find you and will help you."

She gave him a long studying look and then suddenly shook her head. "No, I'm not accepting your help, Captain. I cannot drag a future baronet through this dirt." He clenched his jaw. He didn't care much for his ancestry.

"Don't be foolish, Wren..."

"No!" She suddenly tried to get up, and he jerked her down.

"Stay down, you mad woman!" When he jerked her, she fell on his lap, and suddenly he realized that he hardly had any chance to survive this day, or at least could use that as an excuse, and he pulled her into a passionate kiss. She squeaked and then immediately rushed into it herself. Her hands were pulling the hair at the back of his head, and she bit into his bottom lip painfully.

"My Lord, John..." This time it was her who addressed him by his name, and he lost whatever self-control he had left. He was pressing her into him, crushing her small body, and greedily kissing her he let the words to pour out.

"Wren, my darling... My love… My star… Goodness, I love you… I will find you! When the war is over, I will find you, and I will marry you. And I will take you with his child or not… And damn it all, you are mine now..."

She responded with no less fervour, her mouth opened letting him in, and she moaned loudly, "He accused me of loving you… Of preferring you to him… Oh, Lord, he was right..."

He half growled, half wailed from her words and bit into her neck. It was the wrong time, and the wrong place, but he never felt more exhilaratingly happy in his life. Another cannon boomed, and he pushed her away from him.

"Get out of here, you mad woman!" She was staring at him, completely dazed from his caresses, and he guffawed and pulled her into one more short kiss. "And give me your damn address!"

She was sitting in a cart carrying her away from the battlefield and from the man she loved, and her heart was calm. Men like him didn't lie. Men like him didn't die at war either, they led their soldiers bravely into combat and then returned home to keep their promises.

2.

**December 17th, 1844 **

**London, Britain **

Two mug-hunters were standing in a dark alley, one of them twirling a short knife in his hand. "How do we know that's where he is going sartain to pass?"

"That's his usual route, you mug. Right from the club and home. Don't forget the plan, Archie." The first crook snarled through his yellow teeth.

"Shut your tatur-trap! Why don't you yell my name so that the whole street can hear you? It's like we carolling here instead of putting someone's lights out!" They stood bickering in hissing tone for another half an hour, when the exquisite black carriage they were expecting showed up around the corner. The woman who was with them and had remained silent all through their row punched one of them.

"It's time, you mouths, that's the mark!"

As agreed she stepped out at the road and started flailing her arms, attracting the attention of the coachman. The giant, bear like man holding the reigns of the carriage of Mr. Thorington, Esq., was well known around London, especially in its lower classes. An excellent boxer, wild temperament, shaved head, massive fists of the size of sledgehammers, Graham Dwalinson was as they say a flummut, and had to be snuffed first. The girl rushed under the wheels of the carriage, Dwalinson jerked the reins, and the crook jumped out of the alley, quickly stabbing the blade under Dwalinson's ribs, while choking him with the second hand.

When the second badger jerked the door of the carriage open, he found it emoty, as the owner of it had lunged out of it on the other side. He was fast, his muscled well-trained body clad in a black dinner jacket flashed like a shadow through the alley, and with a hiss a hidden blade slid out of a tall cane.

He rushed towards his coachman, quickly blocking the attack of the second crook, while the first one was still struggling with quickly weakening Dwalinson on the ground. At that moment Mr. Thorington received a heavy blow to his right shoulder by the woman. He was two heads higher, while she was still tall for a woman, and thusly she only reached as high, but she was broad and strong and had an indubitable advantage. The gentleman couldn't return a blow. She was a woman. He fell on the ground and rolled away from her. She quickly stepped on his wrist, and he let the blade out of his fingers.

And that's when the first shot was fired. The woman standing over him swirled, as if under hypnosis he saw blood gushing out of her shoulder, and she started keeling on the ground, dropping a slop baton she had in her hand.

In the dim light of the gas streetlamp Thorington saw the most remarkable spectacle. A tiny feminine figure, in a demure dark burgundy dress, was standing aiming a barrel of each of her pistols precisely at the forehead of each of the crooks. A third gun was smoking at her feet. She obviously wouldn't have had time to reload it after shooting the woman, now weakly thrashing and raspily breathing on the pavement stone.

"Gentlemen, something tells me you should probably find yourself another place for your beer and skittles," her voice was confident and sarcastic, with a strong Irish accent. The crook holding Dwalinson down, who had lost consciousness by then, swore dirtily, and the girl tut-tutted reproachfully. "What a language in a presence of a lady!"

The second crook who had his blade pressed to Thorington's throat when his woman stepped on the gentleman's hand snarled, "I don't see no lady here! Just a mot from Kensington. You are that red, Leary, aren't you? Why don't you keep on walking, bobtail? Do you want us to visit you tomorrow at your counter?"

She grinned wider and stepped into the light. Thorington noticed the indeed flaming hair, freckled nose and a wide red mouth without any pomade. One red carnation was pinned to her chest.

"Darling, who says you'll be walking anywhere tomorrow? I'm an excellent shot and the funny thing about this torturous dress, there is plenty of room under these skirts. Who says I'm not hiding any more irons there? So why don't you let this nice gentleman go and I'll forget your frontispiece when a harness asks?" The crooks exchanged dark looks. "And isn't it your convenient bleeding on the stone? Shame for such bit o'jam to die in this filthy alley."

One of the crooks rose and picked up his woman. The second one let go of Thorington, who immediately rushed to his coachman, and in a matter of seconds a gentleman, his coachman and a barmaid were left alone.

She pushed the pistols in the harnesses hidden below her bloomers, from the corner of his eye he noticed the movement when she lifted her skirts and immediately looked away, and she fell on her knees near Dwalinson as well. They untangled a dirty rope from his neck, and Thorington jerked his servant's coat and vest open. He pressed his silk handkerchief into the wound, and finally looked at his saviour. She looked modest and put together, as if she hadn't been holding two men under the aim of two elegant pistols just a moment ago.

"I thank you for your intervention, my lady." She smiled to him from a corner of her mouth. "What is your name, miss? Leary? Did I understand it right you are a barmaid at the Kensington Station?"

"Yes, sir, Wren Leary," she pulled a white clean handkerchief out of her purse and pushed it under his palms. "I will run for help, sir. Do you live nearby? Any servants that can come out and send for the doctor?"

"The big red house, on the Melbury Road."

"Dash my wig! You are quite an oak, aren't you?" Her voice was jolly, though she frowned worrying about the man unconscious on the road. She jumped on her feet and suddenly started bunching up her skirts. He hastily looked away. "Here, I'm leaving one of the irons with you. They might still come back. Why did they even decide to heave you?"

"They didn't. I'm afraid my cousin is after my title of a baronet!" She whistled, and he suddenly found it endearing.

"Goodness, you are more of a tulip of a goes, aren't you?" She chuckled, and picked up her skirts to run. He stopped fighting with himself and allowed himself to appreciate the delicate ankles. "Oh, since we only live once," she muttered and suddenly leaned in and caught his mouth. The kiss was very short, chaste, her lips pressed together tightly, but his head swam. "That's my last chance to kiss a baronet after all!" She giggled and rushed towards Melbury Road.

If John Thorington, Esq. knew anything about himself, and he had always prided himself on his sharp self perception, that wasn't the last time she kissed a baronet. He was also certain his mother's emeralds would look exceptionally well on her long elegant neck.

**Glossary:**

mug-hunter - a robber, criminal

sartain - certainly

mug - an idiot

Shut your tatur-trap! - Shut up!

out someone's lights out - to kill

mark - a victim

flummut - dangerous

snuff - to kill

badger - a criminal

slop - a policeman

beer and skittles - fun

mot - a prostitute

bobtail - a prostitute again, gee…

iron - a gun

frontispiece - a face

harness - a policeman

convenient - a mistress

bit o'jam - an attractive woman

Dash my wig! - an exclamation of surprise

oak - a rich, possibly aristocratic person

heave - to rob

a tulip of a goes - the highest class

3.

**April 23rd, 1922**

**Chicago, Illinois, USA**

The Coonan brothers, Ronnie and Jimmy, were holding a tommy gun in each of their massive hands, yelling at a bank clerk. All the customers of the bank were lying face down on the floor, and a puddle was growing under the feet of the terrified employee. Recently having arrived from Ireland, the Coonan brothers took Chicago by storm. Some said they brought an arsenal with them. But their fame of blood thirsty murderers wasn't the only thing that had followed them over the pool.

Meanwhile, Wren Leary, a modest teacher from the Middletown School, suddenly felt very angry. She was sure to die now, and what would she have to remember in the last few seconds of her miserable life of a bluenose? A boring dusty classroom, lonely evenings in her small rented room, ugly clothes, and the three kisses that she had ever had in her life. By the contract most teachers if they were unmarried women were not allowed to keep a company of men, to use any cosmetics, were supposed to wear at least two petticoats and couldn't attend ice cream parlours. The last one was most rhatz, she loved ice cream. At least she found it hotsy-totsy those few times she tried it. And all for what? For a miserable salary and no chance to meet a good husband, that's for sure, not with her looks, but had she become a flapper she'd at least have had some fun before she'd go. And look at her now, stretched on the floor, in a boring grey skirt suit, no shorter than two inches above the ankle, just according to the contract, and a robbery roaring above her red head.

To her right she saw a man lying on the floor, and something made her look for the second time. And not just his bee's knees looks, though she'd have to use a flapper word here and say, cat's meow! Icy blue eyes, long nose, and the most sensual line of lips she'd seen in her life. She'd always been embarrassingly fond of _Jane Eyre,_ and he easily could be another Rochester. Although no, too keen, but the cantankerous cold expression in his eyes would be on the spot. But it wasn't all this that made her look again. It was that he was calm. While she was more scared than ever in her life, he looked as if he was just reposing waiting for his bus. And then his hand slipped under his jacket, and she understood that shooting was about to start.

She squeezed her eyes shut and decided to pray to St. Brigit, she was Irish after all. The blue-eyed baby grand jumped on his feet, she guessed by the rustle and the thump of his heels, and yelling and the tra-ta-ta-ta of the machine gun started. People screamed, someone was yelling orders with a British accent, and suddenly a strong arm wrapped around her, and she was dragged to stand up. She was so short that, since the man was holding her tightly to his wide chest, her feet dangled in the air. A gun barrel pressed to her head, and her eyes flew open.

"Hey, Thorington," Jimmy Coonan yelled, and she realized that the bank became a battlefield, with the Coonan gang on one of its ends, hiding behind desks and in the offices, and the man from the floor and several more, who were probably bulls, on the other. "How about some spaghetti sauce? Look at this birdie, so fresh, so tender," he pressed his lips to her temple, and her body jerked, "And smells so nice. I know how much you hate unnecessary slaughter! How about I start with this red bird?"

She saw the upper half of the face of the one called Thorington show above one of the desks, and their eyes met.

"Let the girl go, Jimmy! I don't negotiate!" His voice was low and confident, with an obvious British accent. "I crossed the ocean to get you, I don't give rat's arse about one girl!"

"Aren't you feeling guilty, Thorington? Young, naive, pure... Look at this red barnet! Makes me home sick!" He pressed her tighter to him, and she felt nauseated. She quickly regretted her thought from a few minutes ago that she was going to die without knowing what it was like to be in a man's arms. She definitely didn't like this feeling. Perhaps, St. Brigid had a bad sense of humour. And then she realized that the solid thing poking her back wasn't what she tried not to think about but a handle of a gun.

Wren Leary had never in her life had any adventures, hadn't been anyhow brave or daring, but something snapped inside her. If she was to die, she'd die fighting. And at the moment she had only one weapon. Her round perky bum. She pressed it back and rubbed to the gangster's crotch. He jerked and looked at her aghast. She kept her eyes low, hoping he couldn't see her terrified eyes, and slid her hand back and between them. Driven by some sudden inspiration she ran her fingers on his stomach, and he made a low snorty sound in his throat.

And then two things happened at the same time. Detective Thorington from Scotland Yard stood up in all his impressive height, his wide shoulders squared, the bank gasped, and he lifted his chin. "Let the girl go, Jimmy."

And Wren pulled the trigger of Jimmy Coonan's pocket gun, a bullet stitching through his foot. The gangster wailed, everybody moved at the same time, deafening rattle of tommy gun swayed in the air, and Wren dropped on the floor covered by Detective Thorington's heavy body. All air was knocked out of her, and she whimpered. He rolled her under the nearest counter, she quickly remembered how they handle rolled up carpets in Hudson's, and leaped into action. She stopped watching, curled in a tight ball, plugged her ears and prayed to all possible saints this time. Brigid seemed to be rather useless last time. When the bank finally quieted, someone touched her shoulder, and she squealed.

"Now you decided to behave like a proper girl?" Thorington's sarcastic tone sounded relieved underneath. "Anything hurt?" All she could do was to shake her head, and he pulled her from under the counter and into his arms. She pressed into him, manners be damned. The guy was a walking nookie and smelled so nice! She was entitled. He chuckled and cupped the back of her head.

"What's your name, miss?"

"Wren Leary," she hiccuped and nuzzled his chest.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Leary. Detective John Thorington, Scotland Yard." She screwed her eyes and saw that he was still holding a gun in his other hand.

"Are we safe now?" She was pointedly looking at the grey fabric of his suit. She remembered the gangster's words about the "spaghetti sauce," and decided the nice black buttons were a much safer subject to look at it. Thorington seemed to understand.

"Hey, agent, I'll step out to the fresh air. Our little hero here looks a bit greenish." A few warm-hearted chuckles from officers and Prohibition Bureau agents were an answer to him, and he led her through the back door. She stepped into the back alley and lifted her face to the blue sky.

"It's alright to feel sick. Since I doubt you have ever shot a gun before." She shook her head keeping her eyes on the sky. She felt he was studying her, but she just wanted to enjoy life since it honestly had just acquired a new meaning to her.

"I think I'm going to quit teaching," she addressed the sky, "I can't even have ice cream in peace with all their bloody rules," her accent was thicker now, and she felt him step closer to her. She finally looked at him. He was standing close, but not looming over her, and suddenly he radiantly smiled to her. Her heart stuttered. Cat's meow indeed!

"I know this lovely ice cream place in East London, you'll love it." She gave him a confused look, and he guffawed. "Alright, Miss Wren Leary, knowing that you are quite a shot I'll be earnest. I really want to kiss you now. Cash or check, Leary?" She gave it a thought and quickly imagined licking ice cream from that soft bottom lip.

"Posilutely cash, detective."

**Glossary:**

bluenose - a prude person

rhatz - disappointing

hotsy-totsy - pleasing

bee's knees - extremely good, exquisite

cat's meow - something splendid or stylish

keen - attractive

baby grand - a large, heavily built man

bull - a policeman

barnet - (British slang) hair

Cash or check? - Do you want to kiss now or later?

4.

**November, 12th, 2013**

**London, UK**

"Leary, common, Leary, stay with me!" Everything swam before Wren's eyes, "Common, Leary, you have to hold on! Don't do this to me, Wren..." His large hands were pressed to the bullet hole in her chest, and she frantically blinked. "Common, you owe me a dance, remember? You said, you'd dance with me again." He apparently turned his head, since his blue eyes, the only thing previously sharp in her vision, disappeared. "Where's the bloody medic?! We have an officer down!"

"Detective..." Her voice was weak, but she really needed him to look at her. She hated the wanker, but she liked when he was looking at her. What's it all about, she wondered. Usually she hid from men's eyes, but not from his. He made her feel warm, and odd goosebumps would run down her back. "Thorington..."

"I'm here, love, I'm here, you just hold on, would you?" She didn't know he could sound so frightened.

"You are groping my tits..." He chuckled.

"Well, that might be my only chance, Leary. Doubt, I'm getting any from you once you are at your full capacity. You don't fancy me much, no idea why." He was taking a piss out of her, but his voice was shaking.

She thought she could hear approaching sirens. Everything went fuzzy, her eyes rolled back, and she heard his panicked voice.

"No, no, Leary, stay with me, common, Wrennie, please..." She didn't know he could sound so pleading either.

Everything was dark, and then for a second sparks exploded behind her lids. The medics were loading her into the ambulance, and the thump of her body woke up the pain in her chest. She opened her eyes above the oxygen mask. The first thing she noticed was Throington's hands grasping the fingers of her right one. She knew it was him, no one else was that hot. His remarkable eyes were roaming her face.

"Leary," his voice was soft, and she gulped weakly. "We are almost at the hospital, you just hold on there, OK?" His thumbs brushed her knuckles. "You did well there, but honestly taking a bullet for me was a bit excessive. Seriously, you could have just bought me a drink..." His voice was mocking but his eyes weren't laughing. The pain in the chest suddenly grew excruciating, and the world went blank.

In the darkness of her unconsciousness there swam some barmy images, the red tricycle from her childhood, the flapper dress from Aunt Muriel's birthday costume party, a tommy gun, some Regency era military red coats, which didn't make any sense, pretty much as the images of Thorington in a Victorian high collared black coat, and then sharply and clearly the sensation of his lips on hers, which was mental, since she had never kissed him in her life, or had she?

She opened her eyes and stared at the white hospital wall. There were flowers and balloons in her room. Thorington came three days later, thankfully after they let her take a somewhat resemblance of a shower for the first time. She had bandages across her tits, but she was lucky apparently. She suspected it was something they told everyone. Either you were lucky, or you were dead.

He looked good, in a red cashmere sweater over a white tee, and she tried to remember why she had hated him so much before. She was hoping he would say something in his old, posh wanker tone, and stopped looking at her so tenderly. She hated toff Thorington, she honestly didn't know what to do with this one. He had a bouquet of her favourite red carnations in his hand, and her eyebrows jumped up.

"You talk in your sleep, Leary." Bugger, she did. She couldn't find her voice. A nurse rushed in, she brought a vase for his flowers, he thanked her, she swooned. Bint. Thorington stopped noticing her right away and moved a chair to sit near Wren's bed. The nurse awkwardly shifted between her feet and left.

"So what is it about ice cream in East London and licking it off my bottom lip, Leary?" His eyes were sparkly, and she stared at him her jaw slacked.

"What?"

"After the surgery, you were arsed up and kept on talking about leaving Chicago for London, and flapper dresses, so I assumed that's after Muriel's costume party, but then you started blabbering about kissing a baronet and called me Captain Thorington, 7th Dragoons Regiment. I got a bit worried about you, Leary."

She stared at him frowning. "Sounds like a complete poppycock. Don't know what that's… Honestly I was pumped with drugs and..." He picked up her hand from the sheet, and she choked on her words. His palms were scorching, fingers long and strong and it felt very, very nice. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the very center of her palm. "I would have done it for any other officer!" She blurted out, and if not for the severe blood loss, she'd be red as a beetroot now. He hummed into her palm nonchalantly, and his lips slipped on the inner side of her wrist, "That didn't mean anything..." That sounded very convincing, especially the squeak at the end of the sentence.

He chuckled and lifted his eyes at her. Bollocks, she honestly didn't understand what had happened. It was still him, the puffed up toff wanker, who treated her like dirt and a piece of meat. Chauvinistic, narcissistic, egoistic…

She jumped, she pushed him away, she got his bullet by accident. Any officer would have done the same for a colleague. No biggie. Bollocks. He put her hand back on the bed and pressed his cheek over it. She had never in her life wanted anything as much as to touch his hair at that moment. She could almost imagine how lush, heavy, silky these dark strands were. They were quiet for a few seconds, she apparently lost all will power, and then he shifted again and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

"Cash or check, Leary?" Why did this just do magical things to her fanny? And what's with some mental deja vu?

"What?!"

"I'm going down to the cafeteria. Do they take cash or check? And do you want anything?" She felt blotto. Something was happening, and she seemed to have no control over it. Like a whirlpool. Her and Thorington were a whirlpool. Was he saying he was going to get some food and sit in front of her and continue making her bloody jittery by his sudden caring disposition? He seemed to clearly see her frantic mental squawking and smirked to her, but again, there was no venom in it anymore. She knew he'd asked her a question but for the life of her she couldn't remember what it was.

He got up and gave her a look over. And then he leaned in and kissed her. She had never been kissed like that. It wasn't his experience, not his amazing taste, not the soft warm lips. It was just him. All of him. Magical, overwhelming, familiar... He started moving away, he had obviously been aiming for a quick peck on the lips, but then he paused and dove in back. It was quickly becoming way too serious for a snog when she was on a hospital bed and he was just grateful for her back up. She wrapped her arm, unattached to some manky tubes and monitors, around his neck, and he made a low noise in his throat.

He tore his mouth from hers, one of his arms on the sheet, on the other side of her body, all his massive body looming over her. He dropped his head, a long dark strand brushed her neck, she had apparently messed up his ponytail at some point, and he was breathing heavily.

"Damn it, Leary… Damn it..." He shook his head like a pony, apparently incapable of more eloquent statements, "I knew I should have waited till you are better… Really shouldn't have kissed you..."

"Why?" She squeaked again.

"Because now that's all I'll be thinking about until we finally shag."

She should have told him to sod off with his narcissism and his assurance that every bird would eventually end up between his sheets, but Wren Leary was brave enough to admit that wasn't what it was all about. And they both knew it.

He lifted his head and looked at her, his face almost irritated. She gave him an haughty look. It was his fault, he kissed a girl who was shot less than a week ago, now he had to wait.

"Damn it, Leary," he repeated and straightened up, "Get better faster, would you?" He left the room, and she pressed her hand to her lips. They were tingling, and she could still taste him on them.

"And for the record," she jumped up from his teasing voice. He stuck his head and shoulders back into the room and smiled, "I don't have a harem of wifelets, whatever your friend Thea claimed, and I do believe my great aunt's emeralds will look lovely on your neck. Although my nan's pearls will look better with the wedding dress."


	68. (Un)Predictable

**A/N: This one has one of the most overused plots in FF. But I still think Wrennie and John deserve this one as well :)**

**A/N#2: Dear ****LABrown16****, a little air kiss for you and a reminder of the lovely conversation we had about RA! **

"So what is it it that you do?" He has the most amazing voice, low, smoky, with just the perfect raspiness. All together he is a very pleasant company, if only she weren't feeling so painfully awkward. Not every day one gets stuck in a lift with such a gorgeous specimen. When he just came in, she felt her breathing hitch. He is very tall, large, exuding physical and mental power. An impeccable suit, elegant tie, and a surprisingly fitting ponytail. She obviously knows who he is, his face is all over the papers. John Thorington, a famous barrister and one of the most chased after bachelors in this hemisphere. Gossip columns are full of his candids, though Wren doesn't read them.

"I'm a librarian." He chuckles in the darkness. By now they are both sitting on the floor, it's been an hour. So far they have exchanged a couple polite phrases and realized both their mobiles have no coverage in the lift. They've also established that none of them is claustrophobic, and now they are sitting on the floor, he is twirling his posh Nexus in his fingers. Hers is cheaper, but is also an Android. She used to date a computer scientist.

"I should have guessed," his tone is teasing, but it's a nice smile in his voice. She giggles as well. He smells very nice.

"What gave me out? The glasses or the badge I always forget to take off when I leave work?"

"The pencil in your hair." Her hand flies up to her curls, and he is indeed right. She feels so embarrassed that she decides to keep quiet till they get them out of here. "So what are you doing in our toff building?" He apparently has different plans. And the slight self-degrading sarcasm really works for him.

"I was coming to pick up my friend after work, wanted to surprise her, she is an office assistant on the eleventh."

"Thea Martin?" He sounds even more amused.

"You know her?"

"Everybody knows Thea. Well, every male in this building knows Thea." She can't see his face, but she bets he is smirking. She knows for certain Thea hasn't shagged him. She would have told Wren all about it, in excruciating details that Wren really doesn't want to hear. But Thea is planning to. Luckily for him that would only involve "a nice one-off, no post-conking mankiness". Obviously, these are Thea's words. Wren blushes too easily to use words like that. She doesn't know what to answer him. In a moment she hears strange hissing noise, almost inaudible.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm taking off my tie, it's been a long day." He rustles some more, probably unbuttoning the top of his shirt, and from his movement the fragrance from his cologne is stronger in the air. He is sitting rather far away, but she still feels as if heat is coming off him in waves. Maybe she is just imagining it. When the lift jerked and stopped, and the lights went out, she grabbed his forearm. That is yet another reason why she is embarrassed. To immediately grasp for a man for help, like a faint prone maiden in a muslin dress, that is so against her feminist views.

And now she knows how hot he is. His other hand lay on her back, protectively supporting her, and now she knows that splayed under her shoulder blades his hand covers her from the bra to her knickers. Altogether she is endlessly uncomfortable. Not because of him, but from what she is feeling. It's simple, biological sexual attraction. For the first time in her life she doesn't care what music a man listens to, whether he is respectful towards his mother, or what his views on vegetarianism are. But she wants to know what he tastes like, whether he has chest hair, and she bets he does, he has a thick beard, she noticed the hair on the outside of his wrist, and suddenly an overwhelming fantasy of wrapping her legs around his narrow waist and digging her heels into his buttocks, she had a very good look at them when he turned his back to her in the lift, makes her shift on her backside uncomfortably.

"We should talk about something," his voice is lazy, all chocolate syrup and molasses, and that is definitely not something she needs to listen to right now. For the first time in her twenty six years Wren Leary, a prudish, reclusive, potentially frigid know-it-all, literally feels dizzy from suffocating turn on. And here she thought that was only happening in novels. "Miss Leary, are you asleep there?"

"No," her voice is coarse, "I am just… frustrated..." She internally berates herself, she really should have chosen a different word. "I hate not seeing a face of a person I'm talking to. For example, I hate ringing anybody. I'd rather just walk to anyone's office than ringing. And my school was Catholic, but I never went for confession..." She babbles, when she is nervous. And apparently when she is randy. Who knew.

"So you are also a good Catholic girl. If you tell me you are wearing a chastity ring, I'll have trouble believing you are real." Her cheeks start burning furiously. She did indeed wore the ring till she was twenty three. And then Auggie happened. But that's quite a different story.

"I am indeed a spinster if that's what you are hinting at." She doesn't know why she is saying this. If that's her attempt to flirt, it is endlessly pathetic.

"So, you prefer Darcy and Thornton to real men?" His tone is laughing, and she makes a surprised snort like noise. "My sister is a teacher of English."

"I find real men rather disappointing." She once again asks herself what she thinks she is doing.

"Are they only interested in one thing? A fate worse than death for you?" He is openly chuckling now. A low warm rumbling in his chest. She can't stop thinking about the chest. She has never before been interested in male physicality. She is being a hypocrite, the only man she has ever shagged was gorgeous. She has never had an orgasm with him. She has always assumed one has to know what they are doing and have a certain inborn level of libido to enjoy sex. Neither applies to her in her opinion.

"Real men are not direct enough. I think people have to be honest and open with each other. I am all for fair play. Say what you want from a start, what are all these games for? What's the point of convincing another person that you need something different if you are only feeling something completely physical? Or say, if a bloke wants to marry and move to Australia, why pretend it's just a light affair and then blame the girl for his broken heart?" Wren stops and realizes that twenty seconds ago right after his question was actually a favourable moment to shut her gob. He is quiet, digesting her outburst. She wonders if there is a door in the floor that she can open and jump down to her certain demise.

Suddenly he shifts in the darkness, and she feels his fingers brush at her shoulder. She squeaks, and he chuckles. His hand is gone, he was just trying to determine where she is.

"Miss Leary, I will be direct. I find you very attractive and would like to kiss you. It is purely physical, I think your bright red mouth is very sexy. Can I?" His tone is mundane, but she can hear the suppressed laughter. She is silent, her jaw on the floor of the lift. "Are you wearing any lipstick?" She gives it a thought.

"Yes. No." She sounds as if she is being choked.

"Pardon? So yes or no?" She asks herself in a millionth time what the hell she is doing.

"You asked me two questions. I gave you two answers. Yes, you can. No, I am not."

He moves closer, and his scorching palm cups her jaw. "Good, I love it that it's the natural colour," his thumb brushes her bottom lip. "Good indeed." He leans in and kisses her.

She did expect it to be mind blowing, what she didn't expect is the reaction of her body. She makes a purring sound she didn't know she could make, grabs his ears and straddles him. He makes an oomph sound in return, he is surprised and she has just pretty much drilled her pelvis into his, but he doesn't seem to mind. They are kissing like teenagers that are left in a house alone for the first time, and she realizes he is very, very well-endowed. She wouldn't be able to use any other words even in her head, even if she could think. She can't. She is busy nipping and sucking at his neck, her hands on his naked chest. Apparently she has opened the buttons on his shirt. Apparently she doesn't care.

His hands are underneath her skirt, rubbing and squeezing her buttocks, he is far from gentle, she finds it exhilarating. He twists his neck from under her greedy mouth and catches her earlobe between his teeth.

"God, what are you even?.." He mumbles and sucks on her neck. There will be a mark there. His long fingers slide under her knickers, now he is aware how aroused she is. He breathes out an intricate swearing. She shift her pelvis, trying to create more friction, and whines. He rubs just the right spot, and she moans loudly. "I have a Durex..."

She is pretty much riding his hand, when the meaning reaches her brain, and she rasps, "Hurry up..." He pulls the hand out of her, and she swears for the first time in her life. He grabs the back of her head with the left hand and pulls her into a deep kiss. He is probably trying to keep her from forgetting what they were doing and getting some of common sense back. There is no danger of that. She runs the tip of her tongue on his lips, and he growls. He pulls his wallet and lets her go to open the square package. She moves away, letting him roll it over himself, and then his arm wraps around her waist, and he pushes her on the floor.

"I would normally… But fuck it, I need you like that..." He is not making any sense, she doesn't care again.

He pushes into her, and she sinks her teeth into his shirt covered shoulder. She doesn't know where his jacket has gone. Her legs are indeed around his waist, and she arches to the point where she thinks something is going to crack in her spine. He is large, hot, and she breathes loudly through her nose still biting on his shoulder. His hands slide under her, his palms on her shoulder blades, she can feel his scorching skin through the jersey of her dress, and then he thrusts into her. His shoulder is not enough anymore, her moan is rather loud. He sets a forceful rhythm, his movements deep and purposeful. She doesn't understand anything anymore, and then she suddenly comes. She cries out, her voice raspy, all her body shaking, her nails dig into his back, and she sobs. He thrusts couple more times and comes as well. He is quieter than her, but he is panting as well. His head falls on the floor of the lift with a thud, and that's when the phone on the wall comes back to life.

He moves out of her in a smooth movement, and she whines again. She is still half conscious, the world would have been blurry if it wasn't that dark. He shift somewhere there in the black ink and picks up. Apparently they are informed that the repairmen are here. She pulls up her knickers, judging by rustling and zipping up he is trying to straighten up his clothes as well.

"Wren..." His voice is quiet, and she makes this "mhm" noise that can be interpreted any way. By the movement of air she guesses he is trying to find her in the dark waving his arm, when the light suddenly returns. She closes her eyes, she got used to the darkness, and she really can't look at him. She doesn't want to see any of the emotions she is sure he feels. Pity, regret, suspicion, smugness, embarrassment… He gets up and leans back on the wall. She scampers away from him and gets up too. They are standing at the opposite corners, and she still hasn't opened her eyes.

"This is what we are going to do..." He says, his tone even and mundane again, but no smile in it this time, and then the lift starts moving. They pass half the floor they had left before the ground floor, and the doors open. There are firefighters, medics, repairmen and a handful of employees of the building in front of the lift. She dashes out, pushes people from her path and runs faster than she has ever run in her life. When she passes the rotating doors, she realizes she left her badge on the floor of the lift, and that tears are running down her face.

**XXX**

John is finishing reading yet another contract when the phone on his desk comes to life. It's his secretary.

"Mr. Thorington, a Miss Wren Leary is here to see you. She has no appointment, but I thought you might still want to see her." Mrs. Perkins has been his secretary from day one. She is perfect. She can add two and two and get four. He asked her to find everything possible about Ms. Wren Elizabeth Leary four months ago.

"Let her in."

He gets up. She looks well. Skinny jeans, a simple white shirt, hair in a ponytail. She looks so nervous that he think if one gives her a glass of milk, she'll make a thickshake in thirty seconds by simply holding it in her hand. She visibly gulps.

"Hello, Wren. I think less official address makes more sense, since we are sort of acquainted." He jokes to hide how her nervousness seems to spill onto him. She nods and sits in front of his desk in the chair he gestured at. She is still not talking. "So what can I do for you?"

He has looked for her. After three weeks of pretending he is not thinking about her 24/7 he called the library number on her badge. They said she was on sick leave. He spent another week considering how much he was prepared to do to see her again, and realized that the list was rather long. He went to the eleventh floor and found Thea Martin. She said she hadn't talked to her friend in four weeks, and he knew she was lying. He is a barrister after all, he asked all the right questions, but she was adamant. He asked Mrs. Perking to find everything about Wren. He learnt she was single and all information about her took half a page. No fines, no marriages, no divorces, no money, except an absolutely transparent account in the most popular bank, no pets, a rented flat. She was a foster child, went to the university, received highest grades, but didn't stay for post graduate. She works in a library and doesn't drive. She is a simple as it gets. And he doesn't understand why he wakes up every morning with an empty feeling and a hard on from the sensual dreams he has about her. And not just shagging her. In his dreams they drink tea, kiss on garden swings, take baths, and he is the least romantic man you can imagine. He needs to know what it is about her.

He sees her nervously wriggle her hands and bit into her bottom lip. "First of all, I need you to know I never do what we did that day. I have no boyfriend, I don't really date and I don't get picked up in pubs and don't do one-offs." Her speech sounds prepared. "I knew who you were when you came into the lift, so don't bother suspecting me. I hadn't planned it and I was honestly going for dinner with Thea. And I know, I know for sure, you are not going to believe a word I am going to say, so don't bother. But I need to say it." Suddenly she lifts her chin and looks him straight into the eyes. He didn't know what colour they were. They are amber, both green and brown at the same time, strange slanted shape, and they are burning. He sees character, strong will, and understands that everything she does in life she does because she chooses to. He assumed she took a job as a librarian because she lacked ambitions or perhaps because having grown up in seven consecutive foster homes she was afraid of a challenge. He now sees she just always wanted to be a librarian. She clenches her fists. "I am pregnant, and it is yours."

The silence in his office is deafening. For forty two seconds. He counted. And then she exhales and gets up. He jumps on his feet too, a drawback of his posh upbringing, impeccable manners. Or perhaps he is going to grab her arm if she tries to run. But she is not leaving. She starts pacing his office. It is so out of place that he freezes behind his desk.

"None of it makes sense, and I know what you are going to say..." This part is definitely unprepared, but he guesses her reserve is slipping. "I am not on a pill, why would I be… I never have sex. And we used a condom, and I don't know if you checked… And I have so little experience with it… But it seemed to be alright, I mean it didn't seem to leak..." Her cheeks are starting to burn, she has pale skin, she must be blushing all the time. He is staring at the freckles, he didn't know she had freckles. He saw her pictures, he had had a good look at her when he entered the lift, something about her made him look again, and again, catching her reflection in the lift door, while she was fidgeting with her badge. But only just now he realized she has freckles. It's like a revelation from Heaven. "I made sure, I did the test, I saw a doctor..." She stops in front of him and inhales. He understands another prepared speech is coming. "I don't need anything from you. I decided to let you know because I think you have the right. I don't need..."

"Shut up." His tone is sharp. He pretty much just yelled at her, and she freezes with her mouth half open. His hands are shaking. His hands never shake. "I was looking for you, I went to see your friend..."

"She told me." She interrupts, no one ever interrupts him. He is the King of the Courtroom. "I only just found out then, and there is a chance to miscarry, so I needed to wait and be sure before telling you." She bites into her bottom lip again. "Why were you looking for me?"

"I wanted to ask you out."

"Why?" That is a strange question, and he looks at her attentively trying to understand what she is actually asking about. "No one ever does."

"Someone once did, you weren't a virgin that day in the lift." He doesn't know why he is saying it. He saw the file. August Anderson, computer programmer, moved to Australia three years ago.

"That's none of your business." She jerks her chin up again, and that's when he realizes he is in love with her. He knows very little, but he is certain he can't learn anything new that wouldn't make him fall in love with her more. He also understands that she is shaking, and she is on the verge of crying. She is carrying his child, and he needs to help her. But he knows that if he hugs her the way he wants and and tries to finally kiss her, pressing her small body into him, and finally taste her neck again, she'll most likely run. He understands that's the moment of truth. He needs to say just the right words. That's his closing argument. He's never been that nervous before.

"I wanted to ask you out because it was special. You were. I needed to see what else was there. I am a hundred percent sure you felt it too. And it was the greatest shag in my life." The corners of her lips twitch. He is almost sure she has a sarcastic sense of humour, and only the anxious state she in in right now prevents her from some very pointed remark. He'd love her even without a sense of humour, but that's a bonus.

"If only you said it all before I told you of the baby..." And he got his answer. It's a baby for her already. And her eyes are smiling. She'd go out with him had he found her before. It's still worked out just fine. He's got her, and he really has nothing against children. With her he maybe wants four. He slowly walks around the table and stands in front of her. She is ickle, the crown of her head hardly reaching his clavicles.

"Well," he is looking down at her, and she gives him an impish look slightly tilting her head. That's a new gesture, but then again he knows very little about her. He likes all of it. "You can either take it as it is right now, or doubt me till our fiftieth anniversary, suit yourself."

"Well," she mimics his intonation, "That would be just daft. What's the point of doubting? Once one agrees on something of the sort, might as well go all in."

He picks up her chin with his index finger and lifts her face. "Where have you been, Wren?"

"In Derbyshire. I wanted to see Haddon Hall, the inspiration for Thornfield from _Jane Eyre,_" she smiles to him. "I hated every minute of it."

"Morning sickness?" He asks and suddenly feels like a proper future father and a partner.

"I wanted to come back and see you." He smiles to her too. He wants to kiss her and see if she blushes from that too. And then he remembers he can. He leans in and gently brushes his lips to hers. He remembers how she lunged at him in the lift and smiles into the kiss. Predictably she rushes in, wraps her arms around his neck and moans into his mouth. Twenty seconds later they are both panting, she is sitting on the edge of his desk, his tie is on the floor.

"Wren... Wren..." She is not paying attention, she is making those small whining noises that drove him bonkers last time, and her small strong hands are roaming his chest. "Wren, you have to stop… We have to stop… I'm not shagging you on my desk, in front of the eyes of half the city, I have a very large window..." She immediately stops and looks behind her. She is rose cheeked, and her hair has escaped the ponytail, and he kisses her cheek. "And we already know we are good at this, we should try to talk..." Her delicate nose twitches, and he guffaws. She looks very, very disappointed. "How about I escape my office now and we go to my place to talk?"

Her nod is very enthusiastic, and he quickly pecks her lips. It's a mistake. Three minutes later they tumble into the ensuite washroom of his office, his jacket and shirt left on the floor near the desk, and he slams the door behind them.


	69. Maze

**For Iamje**

**1\. Maze, 2. Plague, 3. Corky, 4. Reactionary, 5. Sorter (like a sorting machine ?)**

**[50 words]**

**A/N: A sorter in my head somehow is more a person who sorts mail at a post office. I had a job like that, I thought I'd go postal (yes, Wren gets her love for puns from me:D)**

At the entrance of the Thorington mansion's hedge maze a plaque says: "Even if you work as a sorter in a postoffice, your heart corky and your views reactionary, nothing is better than a promenade with a loved one. The maze was founded in 1834, by Lady Wren Thorington, Marchioness of Leary."

**The reminder**** that this is a "****kkolmakov is taking prompts game****." See new and improved instructions in chapter 40.**

**Please, leave ****the prompts in the reviews****, PM service here is driving me bonkers :D**


	70. Throw a Towel

**A/N: Just something floating in my poor, cold affected brain. Another overused plot, straight from a paperback romance novel :)**

"I'm breaking up with you..." He is sitting on the bed, his back to her, buttoning up his shirt, and jerkily turns to her after her words.

"I'm sorry, what?" He is giving her an attentive look. She is dishevelled, mad orange curls sticking out, no wonder, they just spent four hours having sex. She is pressing a sheet to her chest. It always seems very funny to him. She is very passionate in bed, a real tigress, inventive, curious, brave, insatiable, but before some strange switch turns off her sensible side, and very quickly after they are done, she is shy and has endlessly low self-esteem, at least when it comes to her looks. Even she herself doesn't doubt her worth as a journalist.

"I think we should break up… No, the first one was better." There are feverish red spots burning on her cheekbones. "I'm breaking up with you."

"Why?" He honestly doesn't understand. They have amazing relationships. They have dinners, go to her favourite opera together, and have remarkable sex.

"Does it matter?" Her delicate nose twitches. "I have made the decision. It was great but now I'm done. I am hoping it will end without any emotional discomfort, and we can go back to our previous professional relationships." He is suddenly livid. He shouldn't be livid, he hasn't been that emotionally involved.

"And when did you arrive at this decision?" He doesn't know why he is asking, it doesn't matter.

"Last week," he tone is even, but she fidgets with a corner of the sheet.

"Wren, I will be direct with you. I don't want us to stop seeing each other, it was very..." He suddenly can't find an adequate word, and he is an editor after all.

"Convenient?" Her tone is sarcastic. "Comfortable? Satisfactory?" He is studying her, frowning.

"What changed, Wren?"

"Nothing." She's lying.

"Wren..." That's his intimidating tone, it always works on people. But with her it suddenly has a reverse effect. She squares her shoulders.

"I don't owe you any explanation. From the start it was a convenient arrangement, you wanted no strings attached sex from the start, and now I'm done." Something scrapes at his mind, and he is thinking it over. Something in her sentence makes him pause. And then he gets it.

"I wanted no strings attached sex… And what did you want, Wren?" She blushes harder. He seems to be getting to the core of it.

"I don't know… I didn't know then. I just couldn't say no… You are so..." She gestures all over him. For a second her eyes linger on his half open shirt, he knows she is fond of his chest, and he cocks a brow. She is a contradiction, smart and confident at work, rather timid in everyday life, she can't even return a dish to the kitchen in a restaurant, she is the best sex he's ever had but sometimes she behaves like a schoolgirl with a crush. He really doesn't do relationships.

"Wren, we both knew where this was going..."

"I'm not asking you to change it!" She suddenly almost yells, and his brows jump up. She starts clumsily trying to get out of the bed, tangled in sheets, it's a five star hotel, and the beds are rather large. But then again she is ickle. Tiny narrow feet dangle in the air, she is also trying to keep the sheet pressed to her small breasts, and altogether she looks like a bird that fell out of its nest. "We both knew… You are right, and we both knew it'd end. So here it is…" She managed to finally get to the edge of the bed. "It's ended, I'm ending it." He looks at her face, trying to understand if she is hiding tears. If she is, then his assumption is right. She is emotionally involved. He doesn't do relationships. She suddenly looks straight at his face, and he sees her eyes burning and her red lips pressed into a stern line. She definitely isn't hiding tears. "Can you please leave while I'm in a shower?" He nods automatically, and she disappears into the bathroom. He picks up his jacket from the floor and leaves.

**XXX**

A week later he realizes he is going mad. He has been an insomniac since he was thirteen, but now he is not getting even those three hours per night he is used to. He tosses and turns, eventually he just gets up and works. He refuses to link his agitated state with Miss Wren Elizabeth Leary. He is not a lovesick teenager, he is not a husband going through a divorce, he has no bloody reason to miss her at night. They have never even slept together, if one doesn't count that one night when they fell asleep by accident after six hours of energetic shagging. She is not affecting his bloody sleep.

He misses her obviously. It was fun, she was fun. It wasn't the sex exclusively, she was interesting to talk to, they had fun. Bloody hell, how many times can he say fun in his head? He understands the problem, the rest of his life is work. It's challenging, thrilling, he is an ambitious man, but the hours with her were light, and… bloody fun. She accepted him as he was, and he always thought it was because they both knew it was casual and would end eventually. And now it did. He wonders if he was wrong. Maybe, it was so good for quite the opposite reason. Maybe, she started falling in love with him, and that's why she was so accepting and warm and… He gently bangs his head to his desk. He doesn't do relationships, and his sleep problem has nothing to do with her.

He breaks three weeks later. It is three o'clock in the morning, he pushes his feet in random sand shoes and rushes out of his flat in the old tee and denim he was wearing pretending to work. He catches a cab and half an hour later, he is so sleep deprived he has no energy to doubt his actions, he is in front of her building. He is dizzy from the mad rush through the night city, with lights flashing in front of his eyes, making his head spin, and he buzzes her flat. His skin is burning, there is some disgusting pressure in his temples, and he just wants to sleep. There is no answer, and suddenly even his clouded mind realizes how moronic his behaviour is. His behaviour can be pretty much seen as sleep walking. He doesn't know what he is doing here, what he is going to say, he doesn't even understand what it is that he is trying to achieve. And there is a chance she is not even here. She might be somewhere else. And then his feverish brain readily pushes a lovely picture in front of his eyes. Her, sleeping curled in the arms of August Anderson, the travel photographer who's been circling her for the last five months like a bloody predator. John carefully bangs his head to the wall of her building and drills his finger into the button again. He is pressing his hot forehead to the stone of the wall, his index finger on the button, and clearly thinks that it is the first time in his life when he is behaving like a moronic, imbecilic, half-witted pillock with no dignity and seemingly any concern of what people are going to think of him.

"What the bloody fuck is wrong with you?" Her enraged voice through the buzzer shakes him out of his stupour, and he realizes he kept his finger on the button for at least fifteen seconds. "It is fucking four o'clock at night!" She is yelling. His mouth is so dry that he starts coughing instead of talking. "I'm calling the coppers!"

"Wren..." He croaks, "It's John. I need to talk to you." There is silence on the other end for a bit, and he clearly imagines how she anxiously twitches her nose. That makes him chuckle.

"Are you bladdered?" There is no judgement in her tone, she is just inquiring.

"No," he is still pressing his forehead to the wall, the cool stone feels nice to his burning skin. "But I'm heavily sleep deprived. Let me in, Wren." She is pondering it, and then he understands how it looks from her perspective. "I promise I'm not drunk, not on drugs or don't have any devious intentions. Let me in, Wren." The door clicks, and he rushes up the stairs. If he stops and thinks, he won't be able to say anything. She is standing in the parlour of her flat, her arms wrapped around her. She is wearing flannel PJs with Tardises all over them, and her mad curls are a halo around her head. He's never seen her without make-up, professional clothes and sexy lingerie. She is also very short, and in his unfocused, muddled mind she is gorgeous.

"If you broke up with me because you started falling for me, I want to get back together and start again," he blurts it out, and she tilts her head. He knows he is not saying it right. He pushes his hands in the pockets of his denim, and realizes he is in a power stance, it might look menacing, but he is just trying not to topple over on her floor. The carpet looks bloody comfortable. "I mean, I miss you. If you want more, we can do more... I can try." It's still all wrong but he doesn't have the right words. What is he to say? He is in love with her too? Is she? Is he? His head swims, and suddenly she laughs.

"John, you are hardly standing, are you sure, you are not arsed up?"

"Wren," his tone is pleading, "Let's talk, OK? And then I can go home and finally sleep. I'm not even sure it's because of you, but I need to try..." He rubs his face with his palms, "I'm not making any sense..."

"No, you aren't," she seems endlessly amused, and he growls. She is standing in front of him, warm, small, familiar, and he feels he is going to either cry or strangle her now. Or fall down and sleep on her very soft looking carpet. And then she steps forwards, picks up his hand and pulls.

"Let's go, duffus," she is leading him, and he follows her like a donkey. He's never been inside her flat. He would pick her up, sometimes go up to the flat, but never further than the parlour. She'd grab her clutch and a shawl or a coat, and they would leave. She brings him into her bedroom, a large cool room, it smells like her perfume, and her cool finger lie on the skin of his waist under his tee. He stares down at her in confusion, and then his belt clicks.

"Wren, I'm really not sure I can perform at the moment..." He is taking shallow breaths in, greedily catching her smell in the air. She giggles.

"Get in the bed, you plonker. You need to sleep." She opens the buttons on his trousers and pushes them down. He is still staring at her agast. She picks up his tee and pulls it up. "You have to bend, darling, you are too tall." He obediently does that, and she giggles again. And then she pushes him, and since his trousers are tangled around his ankles he plops on her bed. "Common, climb in." He suddenly comes back to life and pushes the trousers off, together with his shoes. She pulls his arm, and they crawl under the blankets. The sheets are cooling his skin, and he is in Heaven, she makes him spoon her, and he wraps around her. Her smell is amazing, fresh and floral, he pushes his nose in her neck under the ticklish soft curls and emits a long raspy sigh. She chuckles and settles in his arms comfortably.

"John, if you don't mind I'll take the bottoms off. You are like a furnace." He hums in agreement, the world already swimming away, and the last thing he does before everything goes black, is he places a small kiss on the cool skin at the back of her delicate, vulnerable neck. He slightly opens his lips, he needs a bit of taste, it is just a perfect addition to the fragrance of her hair and the feeling of her body in his arms.

**XXX**

He wakes up in an empty bed, well-rested, he checks his watch, he slept for so long seemingly for the first time in years. He sits up leaning on the headboard of her vintage oak bed. He quickly evaluates her countryside cottage styled bedroom, all demure and innocent, and realizes that is absolutely not what he expected. On the other hand, he should have. That is the real her, sweet and smart. The events of the last night come back, and he tenses. He quickly estimates his option and decides to play it by ear. Now that his mind is clear, he is slightly embarrassed. And when he is embarrassed, he always gets the same reaction. He gets angry. He clenches his jaw and feels defensive. But before he manages to organize his thoughts, she steps out of the bathroom in a simple navy coloured robe, with a towel wrapped around her head. She is pale, but it's probably the lack of make up. She freezes and looks at him.

"It's Saturday," her voice is slightly teasing, "You have just committed the worst faux pas in non committed relationships. You stayed over. And it's Saturday." She is thoroughly enjoying his discomfort.

"Why did you break up with me, Wren?" She comes to the bed and sits on its edge. She smells unfamiliar, her shampoo and soap have always been hidden beneath her perfume, he would sometimes catch the traces of this new smell on the hair. He likes it more.

"I had a pregnancy scare last month. And I realized... I didn't want any of that. Sex comes with too much responsibility, and especially with you… Considering how much of it is going on," she chuckles joylessly, "And I obviously started thinking what I would have done… And whether I would have told you… And so on, and so on… Well, you can imagine. So I thought it's best just to stop it." She unwraps the towel, and her wet hair falls on her shoulders. It's darker when it's wet, he's never seen it this way. She is looking sadly at him. "It just wasn't working for me anymore, John."

So no feelings, he was wrong. No falling in love, no sudden desire to marry him or have his kids, no lazy breakfasts on Sundays, no "daddy, I don't want to go to school" or "I love you more than life itself," no kites in a park, no sex in the morning half asleep, and what the fuck is he even thinking about?

He needs to get up, put on his trousers and leave. He is pinned to his spot and can't move a muscle. She is drying her hair with her towel, and he doesn't understand why he is embarrassing himself even further.

"Did you hear anything of what I said yesterday, Wren?" He honestly has never done it before. He's always cared about his dignity too much. He venomously asks himself, whether he is planning to beg, if she rejects him now. She chuckles and lowers her towel.

"Sort of. You were slightly..." She wiggles her fingers near her temple.

"I asked you to get back together and try something different, something more." She puts a towel on her bed and folds her hands on her knees. He feels like he is going to choke her now. He doesn't do relationships, doesn't she understand?

"No, John, I'm sorry but I can't. I can't do something more." He literally hears his heart beat once, then pause, then beat again. He congratulates himself, he is a character in a love novel, his heart just broke, and he is going to leave her flat trembling but dignified.

"Fuck you, Wren," he jumps out of her bed and starts clumsily jumping around her bedroom trying to pull up his jeans. "If you want to be a coward, help yourself. But don't tell me you don't feel anything for me," one of his legs is finally in, and he sways, "The way you fuck me, I know you fell for me.. It's not just sex, and you know it… We both know what we feel..." He grabs the other trouser leg, but he is too livid to figure it out, and he swirls on one spot, "We could be good for each other, we could..." He jerks the waist up, cuts himself under his knee and plops on the floor.

"We could what, John?" Her tone is calm, and she is looking at him. "Date? You can't even pronounce this word, and do you honestly expect me to believe that you are capable of anything more that just casual shag?" She is losing her reserve, and he is staring at her from the floor. "You did sooooo well in this casual thing! You haven't made a single mistake!" She is raising her voice more and more, and her eyes are bright. "Never stayed over, never even entered my flat before last night, no oversharing personal details! You always remembered to remind me of the conditions and so very smartly ignored that time I slipped! Lovely, John, an absolutely perfect performance!" He feels his jaw slack, she is yelling at him. She jumped up, and now she is looming over him, flailing her hands, and she is yelling at him. No one ever yells at him.

"What time that you slipped?"

"God, I can't believe you! Are you going to pretend you didn't hear me say that I loved you two weeks ago? We fucked, I came and mumbled it like a moron!" Her voice is shrieky, and he gulps. She is terrifying. And the most beautiful woman he has ever seen in his life. And still a bit terrifying.

"I didn't hear you," his voice is small. She growls, it's rather unconvincing, and stomps into the bathroom. She slams the door behind her, and for a few moments there is dead silence in both rooms. And the he hears her laugh in the bathroom. He jerks his legs, but apparently today is not a trousers day. He shakes them off, clumsily gets up and walks to the bathroom door. He knocks, and she starts laughing louder. "Wren?" She pushes the door from inside, and it almost hits him to the face. She is sitting on the floor, and he kneels in front of her.

"Did I just profess my love to you using the words 'fuck' and 'moron' in the same sentence?" He is smiling widely.

"Yes, it was glorious," he cups her face, and her long black lashes flutter. He likes them more without makeup. "Can we go to bed now?"

She was smiling to him too, but now she frowns. "No, John."

"Wren?"

"I don't want 'something more with you', I'm sorry it just doesn't cover it, I get it, this whole conversation..."

"I want kids," he interrupts her, and she chokes on her words. "Not now, but I mean we are not teenagers either, so pretty soon I guess," he quickly counts their age in his head. He always wanted a lot of kids. And then he thinks that he actually never wanted any, but in the last few nights, in his bladdered brain there were always four of them, three boys and a girl. "That's me answering to your pregnancy scare. If you get knocked up we are going to be exuberant and will immediately start arguing about colours for the nursery room. But right now I want something more," she is staring at him, "To be precise I want everything. All of it, with you. We are going to date, shag, see each other, be in relationships, whatever other terms there are in there... All of it, and will probably eventually get married and will try for a baby. OK? And now just shut up and get in the bed, OK?" Her eyes are brilliant, and she smiles widely.

"OK."

"Great," he pulls her in and kisses her. Her palms lie on his chest, and she moans into his mouth. He shortly thinks he was lucky he was not wearing his shirt when they were having this conversation, really worked at his advantage, and then he pushes her on the floor and opens her robe. Here she is, her radiant pale skin, small perky breast that he immediately sucks on, and she arches, and the bed is honestly too far, and then he is kissing her stomach and then lower, she raspily cries out, and he covers her sex with his mouth. His tongue swirls over the soft pink lips, and she is murmuring something.

"I want you, please… John.. I want you inside..." He hums and continues caressing her with his tongue. He missed her so much. He knows she normally would also need one finger inside her, but he only just slides his hand on her thigh, when she comes, her whole body violently shaking, and he adores this moment! Her small hands thrash on the floor, and she is making soft mewling noises. And then her fingers fly to his hair, and she pulls. "Please, please, common..."

He slides up her body, shakes off his pants, looms over her, and she catches his mouth. Her legs wrap around his hips, and she insistently rubs her wet curls to his cock. He groans, and then presses his tip to her. He almost starts pushing in, when he realizes that for the first time in his life he forgot about protection.

"Durex, Wren..."

"I'm on a pill, please… Common…" She lifts her pelvis from the floor, spurring him, and he will question in later. He thrusts into her, and she makes a low satisfied noise. "God, finally..."

He is moving in her, into her, with her, and suddenly her remarkable eyes open, they lock their stares, and she smiles to him, he slides into her again, and again, and she is hot and tight, just as he remembered, or better, or better than anything, and he picks up her leg and hikes it up higher. He catches her mouth, her tongue darts to meet his, and it is her, her taste, her smell, the warmth, and he is home. He comes with the loud growl, the last few seconds before it his mind is completely blank, just the sensations, and the drive, and the pleasure.

He is lying on her, she seems completely fine with it.

"Am I squishing you?"

"A bit," her voice is lazy.

"Why are you on a pill?" She is quiet, they have always used condoms. "Wren?"

"It's less risky." He raises above her and gives her a stern look.

"You broke up with me, Wren. Whom was it for then?"

"Seriously?" She tries to look indignated. "Your cock is literally still in me, and we are already having a tiff?"

"My cock is very comfortable, thank you very much, that's my first shag without a condom, I'm overwhelmed with awe and gratitude, and we just professed our feelings to each other, and it's the happiest day in my life. And we will go back to celebrating it, after you tell me why you are on a pill." She blinks several times, obviously processing his machine gun speech, and he sees red. "Did you shag August Anderson?"

"No!" She barks back and then pouts. He's never seen her pout. They had different sort of relationships. He likes the pout, it's adorable. And she didn't shag August Anderson. "I was going to," she says with a challenge in her voice. "I got the pills, and we went out, but I couldn't..." He is keeping his face under control not allowing the stupid happy grin spread. "He walked me home, and I chickened out. Happy?" She hisses at him, and he grins and nods.

"Very." She is studying him but then gives up and smiles too.

"Me too. And now get out of me. I need another shower. Apparently it's very sticky without a Durex. Who knew." He laughs and carefully moves off her.

"How about a shared shower?"

"Oh my, today is the day of firsts, isn't it?" She gives him a cheeky grin, and he gets up and scoops her in his arms.

"Oh you just wait, little one," he picks her up under her arms and places her in the bath. She giggles, and he closes the curtain behind himself.


	71. Thaw

**A/N: I can't seem to stay away from modern AUs these days. And from soppy romance novel plots. There are six more chapters of this excessively emotional, cloying, saccharine stuff written. Who wants to read them? ;)**

**A/N#2: Dear Guest who reviewed the previous chapter, thank you so much for your feedback! Since I can't PM you to thank you, here are hugs back to you here :)**

The fever is very high, you have no energy to get up and walk to the kitchen to get a thermometer, but you doubt it's below 39 degrees. The room is swimming in front of your eyes, it is dark, the lights went out yesterday, and you see some strange purple shapes and forms squirming on the wall and on the ceiling. At some point you start crying quietly. This is the second time in your life you have been that sick. Last time you were nine, and it was in a foster home. No one took care of you then either, but at that time you felt it was for the best. Anything was tolerable as long as you were left alone. This time you keep on telling yourself that you are fine, you have your room, your bed, your bedding with yellow roses, you got out, you are your own person now, no one will harm you anymore, but the fever makes you miserable, and your pillow gets wet. Whatever made you proud of yourself before, being on your own, not depending on anyone, building your life the way you want, at this moment is making you cry louder.

Hallucinations become stronger, soon the whole world is full of some wiggling and slithering slimy shapes, and you gather enough strength to reach for your mobile on the bedside table. It takes you a few seconds to concentrate on the screen, you press random buttons, and then you realize that there is no coverage. That is the last drop, you crawl back under the blanket and cry yourself to sleep. Among other things you really have no one to call.

Several hours later, you really don't understand what time it is anymore, you think you have lost consciousness, when something cool lies on your forehead. Something fizzy is poured into your mouth, and the cold lemony liquid brings relief. You fall asleep, and in your half slumber, half delirium you think you feel someone running their fingers through your hair. You wake up several hours later, sweaty sheets sticking to your body, and find another glass of medicine by your bed. You drink it, remembering how much better you felt from it last time, and you want to go back into darkness, but your bladder has other plans.

It takes you three times longer than usual to get to the bathroom, your knees are wobbly, and you are walking holding on to the wall. You have to stop half way to catch your breath, and that is considering how tiny your flat is. When you finally get to the door and jerk it open, you realize you are staring at a stranger in boxer briefs.

He obviously has just stepped out of the shower, the mirror in the bathroom is foggy, he is rubbing his astonishing mane of long, dark hair with a towel, and he turns. Your eyes meet, and your mouth falls open.

"You shouldn't be up," he has a very nice voice, and he is keeping it down obviously for your sake.

"I need to pee," you really have nothing better to say. He bends and picks up his clothes from the floor, for a second you are staring at his muscular back, skin tanned and even, long muscles along his spine, and then he pulls up his denim.

"I'll step outside, but call me if anything. You are probably still very weak," he squeezes by you and out of the bathroom, and his hand accidentally brushes your upper arm. Even in your feverish state, his skin feels scorching.

You do your stuff, wash your hands and face, and suddenly you have an irresistible desire to take a shower. You jerk off your PJs and turn on cool water. You step under it, and then hear the stranger's voice.

"Wren, are you taking a shower?"

"Yes," you sound squeaky.

"It's not safe, you are still running a fever probably." The nippy water feels amazing on your skin though, and you feel much better. And then your knees buckle, and you start sliding down the wall. On the way you topple shampoo bottles of a shelf, and before you hit the bottom of the tub, a pair of strong hands picks you up. "What a stubborn woman!" He grumbles under his breath and pulls you out. He is so large that you feel like a child in his arms. At least you washed your hair and scrubbed yourself a bit with a loofah. He wraps you in a towel and carries you back into your room. You whine in his hands, you don't want to go back to your bed. "What?" He asks softly.

"The sheets, they are all sticky..."

"You are right, we need to wash them. OK, let me think," he gives it a thought. Then he takes you through the kitchenette, and into Thea's room. He puts you on her bed, and you realize that is where he slept last night. "I spent two night here, but I swear I'm very clean." There is a smile in his voice. "Your friend mentioned you are very concerned with cleanliness."

"I bet she used the word clean freak," you mumble. You climb under his blanket that suddenly feels so nice that you are completely unconcerned that he saw you naked and you don't even know his name. The sheets smell like soap, his cologne and what you assume is the fragrance of his skin. It's fresh and grassy.

Suddenly he grabs your ankle, and you remember that there is man in your flat whom you've never seen in your life before. But then he pulls you towards him and grabs to corner of your towel. He pulls it from under the blanket and smirks. You probably looked alarmed for a second.

"It will feel disgusting pretty soon if you leave it in there. Sleep, I'll wake you up for more medicine later."


	72. One More AN

As usual, a small guide to those one-shots that became multi-chapter fics. I'm so proud of my babies! All grown-up and leaving the nest! :)

1\. **#29 "Cloak and Dagger"** and its continuation, **#59 **(Edwardian era romance novel) became: **"Poles Apart"**

(there is one more chapter left and a happy, sappy epilogue:D)

2\. **#37 "Guess Who?"** (a Doctor Who crossover) became: **"Do You Have a Prescription For That?"**

3\. **#71 "Thaw" **became: **"convince me that the winter is over"**

Just a friendly reminder, I have a Pinterest account (same penname kkolmakov) with visual inspirations for most of my stories. I'm not very dililgent there, but if you feel like it... ;)


	73. Little Red Pompom

**A/N: This is a little something inspired by an incident from today's morning. I'm blushing :)**

The first thing you notice is that he is as tall as Mira's father. Then you scold yourself. You should stop comparing. Considering that in the words of George Takei this one is "oh my..." And then you quickly think that you promised Thea the DVD with TOS. And then you think that you like the beard, though you never like facial hair. And all that in a nanosecond while he is walking towards you. Then you think that this is a very expensive pram he is pushing, and since Mira is already four you won't get a chance to buy one like that for her, even though you can afford it now. And then you think it's a relief and remember that judgemental stare you got from that lady in a grocery shop. And then you huff, it was two years ago and you really should have gotten over it. He is almost passing you now, and you look at the kid in his stroller. The boy is probably around two and has the most gorgeous dark eyes. Like black cherries. You look up and meet the bloke's blue eyes. Then there is this second when people sort of focus on each other in a situation like this, and then he smiles. You always smile back to people but even if you didn't, you'd answer to this sunny grin. It has all one could wish for: understanding, good humour and a healthy amount of flirtiness. As much as a father with a pram can give to a mother with a pram. You get it, you do look good today. You made an effort. Just one of those days. And then you drop your eyes and blush. You gave up on trying to control your colouring many years ago. Who cares, you'll never see him again. They pass, and you are fighting an urge to look back and check out the backside. You suspect it's majestic. You don't, feeling the blush and biting the bottom lip.

"That baby had the same hat as I do," Mira's voice rings from the pram, and you shake off the daze.

"Really?" You haven't noticed. You start laughing, loudly and openly, for the first time in months to think of it. You really didn't notice. How come?

"Yes, the same hat. With the red stripe here," she points on her forehead, "And the red pompom." You can't remember. It's so silly, and so surprising, that even after you are done chuckling, you can't stop smiling. It's an unusual hat. You brought it from Berlin. And you haven't noticed. You saw his kid's eyes, and a cute nose, and a happy smile, but not the hat.

**XXX**

"Mum, look! That's the baby in my hat!" Mira is pulling your hand, and a second later you see him on the bench. And then you obediently turn and look at the boy Mira is pointing at. She runs to him, two red pompoms meet on the top of the slide, and you wonder whether you should sit on another bench. You wouldn't if it weren't him. But you remember the black beard and the blue eyes, although it's been five days. You tell yourself not to look that way, and immediately you do. He smiles to you widely, and then to your shock pats the bench near him. Today you are far from attractive. This jacket was a gift from your mother in law. You look frumpy. And you are allergic to most mascaras. Who cares. You flop near him on the bench and smile unnaturally.

"Good afternoon." You are ready to curse all possible deities. His voice has to be illegal. You wonder if your mobile has a recording function. You are rubbish with technology. His voice is like caife Gaelach. Depending on the content of his speech, one could probably orgasm from it after between 4.6 and to 8.3 seconds. Depending on libido. You didn't have any shag in the last seven months. You might do it in 3.9.

"Hi..." You see Mira hugging his sprog. She does a lot of that. You chew on your bottom lip. He chuckles.

"She is rather affectionate, isn't she?" With a smile in it, his voice is not just illegal, now it's just obscene.

"Yeah..." She is starved for affection, but you don't want to show that you are as well. "She can't help it, your son is adorable." You wonder whether, if you climb the slide and jump off it, your death will be instant. Because the next logical thing to say that it's in the kid's genetics.

"He is my grandnephew, Peter," he smiles again. "Are you her babysitter?" You shortly consider lying. And then you are surprised by this thought. Never had that before.

"No, she is mine. I mean, my daughter. I'm her Mum, I mean." The slide might not be tall enough, perhaps you'll hang yourself on your Fourth Doctor's scarf.

"Really?" His black eyebrows jump up. "You look way too young."

"It's because I'm so skinny." Bugger. You start unwrapping the scarf. Might as well prepare. You like his eyes. And the mouth. You wonder what he smells like, and then you try to think of how to tie a noose. Surely it's not that hard. You turn away from him and stare at your daughter. Her mad orange curls are sticking out from under the hat. He is gorgeous. And he travels. Oh wait, maybe the hat was brought by one of Peter's parents. Who cares. He is out of your league. You don't even have a league. You shortly think of _The League of Their Own_. You have a thing for Geena Davis's early movies.

You feel his eyes on the side of your face and turn. There are crow's feet in the corners of his eyes, and you didn't have any in seven months. If you had a chance you'd lock him in your bedroom for three days. You imagine yelling "I'm recently divorced." And then you think maybe they should invent relationships status buttons for people. Green for the desperate ones like you. Yours might have to be blinking too. You just want a shag. Honestly. You are not imagining a dark haired, blue eyed brother for Mira.

"I'm John." And you are suddenly sad.

"I'm Wren." You shake his hand and congratulate yourself. Now you have a new fantasy for when you are alone with your vibrating friend. The fingers are long, his hands are warm, and you want them on your buttocks. You shoo the thought away. At least for now.

"Mummy, can I take my new friend to the swings please?" You look at John, he nods. You allow it, your voice squeaky and ridiculous. The pompom pair is trodding towards the swings, chatting amicably. At least Mira is chatting, Peter is nodding enthusiastically. You'll ask one question. One polite, innocent question. You are not a stalker. "Are you watching after your grandnephew often?" He chuckles again, this time there is a new tone to it. Mischievous. You might jump him now.

"His parents are trying for the second one. So we all take turns and take him for walks. I like it. I'm looking forwards to taking my own out." He can't be any more perfect. You want to lick him. You hum nonchalantly and consider pulling out your mobile to hide in it. You can pretend to be checking emails. "Do you have any more kids?"

"No, just Mira. And no more in the nearest future obviously." You answer your own thoughts, and then realise how that came out. You rush to fix the situation. Always a bad move for you. "Not that I don't like children, I mean having children. I love having children. A child. It's not that… I want to, someday, maybe more than one more. But I'm not with her father anymore, and you see..." There we go. Wren dug up herself a grave and readily jumped in it. Head first.

Through your mumbling he is watching you attentively. You've never kissed a man with a beard. You consider pretending it's dinner time. You quickly think what time it is. It's not time for dinner yet, but maybe you need to cook. You are a great cook. Even you know it. You'd cook him dinners and lick dessert off his neck. You want to put a paper bag on your head. Your blush can be seen from Asian parts of the former Soviet Union. He is studying your face. You can bet twenty quid there must be dirt on your nose. You are just that lucky with men.

"After this park would you like to go for chips with Peter and me?" His tone is even and friendly. How do people do it? Stay calm when asking someone out. Is he asking you out? "Wren?"

"Are you asking us out?" You need verbal Loperamide. He guffaws. You want him. And to keep him.

"Yes, and then you should find a babysitter and I'll take you out to a dinner with cloth napkins. If you are interested of course." His eyes are smiling.

"I am. Interested. In chips. And the cloth napkins. With you." Loperamide indeed.

"Ace. Let's take the kids off the swings. I know a great chippie place." You'll name your first son Chippie. No, you won't. You've always liked the name Thomas though.


	74. Come in Out of the Rain

The rain is pouring, pitter pattering on your black umbrella, and you shiver. You wonder how much time you have till the puddles seep into your suede ankle boots, and then you feel that you have none. You wince and push the door of a coffee shop. You smile to the familiar barista, quickly pay for your coffee and take a table by the window. You are warming your hands on the round sides of the steaming mug, when you see him. He is running across the street, shielding his head with a folder, and your first thought is that he seems even taller than all those years ago. You recognise him immediately, even with the different hair, and you are not surprised, he is hard to forget. It took your two years then to stop thinking about him every day, it got better, first once a week, then almost never. Something would remind you of him, such as dark hair and blue eyes in a bloke, the name of his hometown, his favourite band, but it's only natural. You dated for two years, he was a big deal, the break-up was painful. It's only logical that things would remind you of him. And of course when one of those conversations would start. In a bar, or a party, when you girls are slightly or rather very much blotto, and someone says, "So, how was your first time?"

_...So, how was your first time?_

"John… John..." You are on the li-lo of his flat, _She's Like a Rainbow _is jingling at the background, and you really think you should switch an album. There is a big chance you are going to lose your virginity in about ten minutes, you are not sure you want an album with the name "Sticky Fingers" to be forever connected in your head with the happenstance.

He hums into your neck to confirm that he listening. He does that, and you like it. The warm, rumbly hum in his throat, rollicking down into his chest. Your dress is unbuttoned down to your waist, the belt is already on the floor, and you grab the hem of his tee and pull. He helps you and returns his weight between your legs. You might be scared shitless, but you do like the feeling of his erection pressed to your inner thigh, hot even through denim.

"I am so bloody nervous..." You breathe out, and he lifts his face. It's been a month, but you are still not used to the bright blue colour of the eyes. You blink frantically and hope it doesn't look like you are daftly battering your lashes.

"We can stop..." He offers softly, but you know he just says it because that's what you are supposed to say when you got your virgin of a girlfriend on your sofa, and your flatmate is finally away for a weekend, and she said she was nervous. You've already been in this position twice before, he stopped, but there was tension after that. You are not making a big deal out of it, but it just felt wrong. You think it doesn't this time. You also think it's hard to understand when his large hand is roaming your side. His skin is very warm under your fingers splayed on his shoulder blades, and who cares, you do need to do it at some point. And you do want to. He seems like a good option. You have lots of things in common, you two probably won't last, though. You are here for school, he wants to go to London in a couple of years. But he is mind-blowingly sexy, and he will be considerate.

"We don't have to..." Your tone is soft as well, and you smile to him. He catches your lips, and you rub his shoulders. It always calms you down. He is very present, warm, physical. He is kissing your neck and then rises on his knees, pulls you after him, and you help him push down the top of your dress. He quickly unclasps your bra and lowers you back on the li-lo.

You are supposed to enjoy his attentions to your tits, but you aren't. You shortly wonder if you two are at the place where you can say so, but he releases your nipple from between his warm lips and cocks his eyebrow.

"Not good?" He is smiling, and you giggle.

"Just don't feel anything… It is so bloody cold here." He chuckles and climbs off the li-lo. He stretches his hand to you, and you assume you two are moving to the bedroom. You shake off the dress, might as well, and he presses you into him.

"You are covered in goosebumps, Wren..."

You wrap your arms around his waist and rub your tits up and down his stomach. He is so bloody tall. He picks you up under your arms and hoists you, your legs around his waist.

"I've always wanted a chick who could do that..." You laugh.

"I bet most chicks can do it..." He is carrying you to the bedroom. "You are huge."

His hands are under your arse, and your lips are sliding on his clean shaved jaw. You love his hair, dark and wavy, so heavy and lush between your fingers, and you twirl a short curl around your index finger.

You two are under his duvet, and you try to shake off the nasty tension in every muscle of your body. You've done it before, you've spent a night in his bed, there was that one time after a club. There was oral sex, you being on the receiving end. After a certain amount of screaming and moaning, as it turned out you are vocal, and after proclaiming temporary blindness, you clumsily tried to breach the subject of a BJ. He laughed and correctly assumed you had never done it before. What can you say, you are a late bloomer. You are not a minger, it was just sort of not quite on your mind. There was just always something more interesting than cocks. His is glorious though.

You've expected to be nervous, but his denim and pants are off, and he expectantly cocks an eyebrow. The gesture is light, flirty, you are on the same wave, and you wrap your fingers around him. It's hot and smooth, and something pops in your head. Literally. Like a switch turns, and you jump at him. If anything, you adore his lips. He tastes great too. Always fresh breath and some spicy fragrance from his skin. You nip the tender bottom lip, and suddenly he hisses. Apparently you squeezed too hard. You should be embarrassed but you are busy. You are figuring out a hand job. You seem to be successful. He covers your hand and rasps, "We have two choices here, Wren..."

You are aware. You let him go, brushing your fingers along the length, making him suck in air, and say in a voice that sounds much more confident that you are feeling, "We need a Durex." He nods, slightly moves away from you and fishes it out of the back pocket of his denim.

It hurts. You don't feel the iconic "breaching of the obstacle" or "the intrusion of a male body into yours." You have done your research through medical books and brochures in the gyno's office, but somehow the daft imagery from paperback romance novels is what's twirling in your mind at the moment. It is just unpleasant tension and rubbing, like the botched up period you sometimes get when you are stressed during exam time. He stops pushing and gently kisses your ear.

"Are you alright?" His voice is shaking. It's nice to know he is also emotionally affected.

"It's not ace, but I'm managing," you joke, but your voice is trembling, and he looks into your eyes. His are vulnerable and slightly scared, and you feel grateful.

"Can I move?" There is a funny insecurity in his voice. You rise and kiss him thoroughly, your fingers running along his spine. He has a beautiful, really sexy back, you went to the beach couple times together. You encourage him with a "uh-huh" between kisses, and he tentatively rocks his hips. It's much better this time, and you slightly shift your pelvis, readjusting the angle. He is nipping and sucking at your ear and neck, he has already mapped the most sensitive areas during the previous rogering sessions, and you are starting to relax. He is a big bloke, but you think he is holding back, supporting most of his weight on his elbows. And then he stops.

"Do you want to try to be on top?" He murmurs into your neck, and you were so busy listening to the miriad of the new sensations in your body and enjoying the feeling of his hot hips between your inner thighs that the question reaches your mind much later.

"If you want… I mean, yeah… what?" He chuckles, though he sounds slightly choked, and carefully moves out of you. You hiss. You should check for blood too. There is none, and he rolls on his back. You are trying not to stare at his cock. You fail. It's gorgeous.

"You can have a better look next time," that's a new voice, sexy and mischievous, and you think you just found your favourite tone of his. You giggle and tap the tip. The whole thing jerks, and you snort.

You do love it on top. He is nice to sit on, heavy scorching body under you, and you settle down, wincing slightly.

"Alright, love?" He is lightly stroking your hipbones with his thumbs. It feels amazing, and you wiggle your pelvis with a fake thoughtful expression on your face.

"Could be worse," you can't keep a straight face and grin widely. His cock has a curve, and you can't say it's not adding some fun.

He runs his fingers on your hips and stomach, a very tender gesture, and there is some sincere warm emotion on his face.

"You feel so… kindred." It's a strange thing to say. He is good with words though. You sometimes laugh that he is too good with words for an engineer. You tilt your head. He blinks and seems to shake off some sentimental daze he was in.

"I like you too," you say and stroke the bridge of his nose with your index finger. You love the nose. You've got a thing for noses.

One thing is for sure. You already understand which part of sex you are going to always enjoy most of all. When his hips buck, his back arches on the sheets, and he comes with a raspy groan, the smug satisfaction floods you, and you grind your pelvis into him couple more times. He is panting, his fingers clasped around your waist, and you gently brush the tips of your fingers on the inner sides of his forearms. You like his forearms, he rolls up his sleeves a lot, probably to hide that most sweaters' sleeves are too short for him. He has this beautiful build, with endless legs and wide shoulders and long arms.

He opens his eyes, you two smile to each other, and he murmurs, "We are going to have so much fun with you..."

You laugh, bend down, placing your palms on the sides of his head, and murmur back, "Time will tell."

_Time will tell…_

He jumps over a puddle, his trench soaked on the shoulders, and disappears behind a corner. You wonder why you are so sure it's him. You are, though. Despite the beard and the long hair. You make yourself look into your iPad and stare at it for half an hour, hardly understanding a word it says.

"Cor Blimey!" You tense and manage not to jerk your head up, probably because you've been imagining his voice in your head this whole time. You are shocked that it somehow sounds better than the orgasmic one you had in your head. He also kept the accent. You did too. You slowly lift your eyes and meet his bright blue ones. You hadn't gotten used to them in those two years you dated, no wonder right now you feel like a deer in headlights. "Either I've gone mad or it is none other but Wren Leary."

_To be continued..._


	75. Right as Rain

**A/N: That's the continuation of the previous chapter :) Hope you like it, my lovelies! **

There is grey in his hair. You think it looks amazing. The beard is black though, you like it too. There is sincere joy on his face, and you immediately relax.

"John Thorington, I presume..." He guffaws.

"I haven't changed that much. Although I have to say, I can't claim to compare to your capacity to look like the twelve years never happened." You laugh. He has adorable crinkles in the corners of his eyes, and you wonder what the beard feels like. It looks very thick. You are smiling to each other, and you are the first to speak.

"Care to join me? If you are not in a rush obviously."

"Goodness, yes, thank you." He puffs air in exaggerated relief, and you laugh again. He rushes to the counter and comes back with a giant mug of coffee and a plate of Manchester tarts.

"Still a sweet tooth as I see," you pick up one. They are your favourite though, not his. He is, or at least was, a treacle person. He pours an obscene amount of sugar in his coffee and then dramatically adds more, one of his eyebrows lifted, taunting you. You chew on the tart and let yourself have a good look. He returns the favour.

"I like the glasses," he asserts.

"I love the beard," you giggle. He runs his palm over it, and you feel jealous. The beard is properly affecting your cognitive abilities.

"So, Wren Leary, what do you do these days?" You take a big gulp of your already cold coffee. It cooled down while you were processing him crossing the street.

"I run a music shop. And you don't have to tell me, I read your books." He makes a soft "oh" sound and grins. Twelve years ago you loved the red spots that bloomed on his cheekbones when he felt shy, embarrassed or randy. With the beard they look even better.

"Blimey..."

"I'd always said you were too good with words for an engineer." He chuckles and nods. "_Engineering is for Humans_," you pronounce in a sing-song voice. "Has a ring to it, I have to say. A bit too Huxley to my taste."

"Smartarse," he bites back and hides behind a tart. You laugh loudly, and he crumples a napkin and throws it at you. It really is as if the twelve years have never happened.

He is smiling softly to you and then drops his head. "God, what do people say in situations like this?" You laugh. You are still waiting for awkwardness to kick in, but both of you seem to thoroughly enjoy this conversation.

"Well," you lick your lips, "We are supposed to catch up, clumsily avoiding the topic of how we broke up, and tiptoeing around our current romantic circumstances."

He lifts his eyes sharply and grins, "Are you single, Wren?" You pick up his napkin from before and hurl it back at him. It hits his forehead, he twitches his nose adorably.

"Divorced. Lasted for two years. Wrong bloke, nothing serious since then. You?"

"Single as well. Never married. No children." You salute him with your mug to confirm the same.

"Why is it so easy?" You ask, take a sip and realise the mug is empty. "Shouldn't it be painfully awkward?"

"Why would it be?" He picks up a tart. "We are grown-up now, and it's not like you broke my heart twelve years ago." You look at the table, there are no more napkins left. He is smiling mischievously.

"Passive aggressive much?" He lifts his hands in a fake defensive gesture. "You, John, left for London. Long distance doesn't work, and you were neglectful. And besides, look how well it all worked out. We are both here, both have nice lives supposedly."

"We indeed are both here..." He draws out, and you look at his hand on the table. You've always loved his hands. "Dinner Friday?" His tone is light.

"God, yes," you breathe out, and you both laugh.

"_Dinner friday?.."_

You are frantically pushing the trench off his shoulders, his hands tangle in your coat, and he growls in frustration. You rid him off his jacket, he has just unzipped your dress at the back. To see better he leaned in, his nose bumped in your neck, and you shiver, and he immediately nips at the skin on your throat.

"Oh right, the neck..." He murmurs, and your knees literally give in. He knew all the best spots, he seems to remember them well. He pushes the dress down, you step out of it, the stiletto heel catches on the fabric, he picks you up under your arms and shakes you to get you out of the trap. You laugh loudly, he is manhandling you. And then in a familiar move your legs go around his waist.

"Wren… Wrennie..." You are placing a row of small bites along the beard. You blame the beard. The beard is the reason you didn't even get to the restaurant. You didn't get to the cab either. You opened the door, picked up your clutch from the key table and smiled to him. His eyes changed, you jumped at him first, he made a large step into the flat backing you up.

"Wren, where am I going?.." You might be purring and rubbing your cheek to his jaw.

"Straight, and to the right…"

He drops you on the bed, and you flail your legs to shake off your shoes. You are wearing black lingerie. You didn't expect him to see it but you wanted to feel sexy. There are stockings and boustier. He is jerking his belt. You rise, grab the collar of his white shirt and pull him down on you.

He is the most delicious weight. You moan. He is supporting himself on the straight arms, you feel the long forgotten thrill from his cock pressed to your inner thigh through trousers, you open the buttons on the shirt. He is larger, all muscles, more chest hair, and you claw at him, with a raspy groan. You feel absolutely narked.

The two of you are rolling on the bed, items of clothing literally flying off and across the room. You want to touch every inch of his scorching skin. He is a perfect combination of familiar and excitingly new. His hands roam, and he is kissing greedily, everywhere. At some point he even licks your stomach. "God, your skin, god, I forgot..." For a successful writer he is hilariously ineloquent at the moment.

None of you have a condom. You are on a pill, and it's John. You trust him. You always have. He has always been good to your body. He pushes in, and you cry out.

"Alright, love?" He sounds worried, and you roar with laughter. He is just so good.

"You are huge, you plonker," you grab the string on his pony tail and pull. The soft waves scatter, curtaining you. "God, I love the hair! And the beard! You just had to get so sexy..." He guffaws.

"I have always been so sexy..." No argument from you. You dig your heels into his glorious arse. He gets the hint.

You come pretty much immediately. You haven't had sex in five months, and maybe, just maybe no one has ever felt as good as him. He is mumbling something, his body shaking, he is frozen, letting you ride out your wave, you are grateful. You open your eyes. His are suspiciously shiny, and you catch his mouth.

He makes you come again, and then it is your favourite part. His body is quaking, his pelvis grinding into yours, and he drops his head on the sheet near yours with a loud moan.

"Lord, it's like I haven't had any in twelve years…" His voice is criminally raspy, and you splay your fingers on his shoulders. You suddenly start crying, you feel like an idiot but you can't stop. He lifts his face and stares at you panicked. "Oh god, Wrennie, what hurts?"

"Nothing, you moron, it's just so good… I'm sorry, I don't know why..." You slowly breathe out through rounded lips. "Honestly, everything is ace… Just intense..."

He tenderly kisses your cheek and rolls onto his back keeping you pressed to him. You nuzzle him, your face wet.

You exhale deeply and mumble, "Seriously, sorry about this..."

"Oh, belt it, Leary," his tone is tender, and he places his hot palm at the back of your head. "I've missed you… I didn't even know that, but I've missed you..." He lifts his hand slowly, letting your curls run between his fingers.

Your throat is choked again, and you hide your face in his chest. The two of you are lying in silence for a bit, you discreetly wipe your tears. It always surprised you how well you fit together, considering the height difference. But your head, shoulder and hip always seemed to find just the perfect spot for them when you'd snuggle in bed. He is running his long fingers through your hair.

You lift your head and see that he is frowning.

"What's up, doc?" You manage not to sound like you just pathetically bawled after an orgasm. He smiles to you, a crinkle between his eyebrows still there.

"I don't know..." He sounds slightly confused.

"Are you thinking we should have waited?"

"No, of course not," he looks at you in amusement, "What bloke would say that they should have waited with a shag?" You snort and settle your head on a fist on his chest.

"Then what?"

"Can we skip the dancing around each other part?" His voice is pleading, and you cock an eyebrow. "Wrennie, all those years ago… We both know it, right? We were too young, I was a bloody imbecile, I should have asked you to go with me, but now... it's just great… And can we please just do it?"

You consider jumping off him and doing a victory dance around your bedroom.

"Do what?" You might be milking the moment. He is frowning, and you feel like the twelve years have never happened. And yet, they did, and it's the best that could have happened to you two.

"You know what I mean."

"Hey, you are the writer here. You are supposed to be good with words. And I honestly don't."

He suddenly grabs your left buttock and gives it a proper squeeze. It fits in his palm perfectly.

"Marry me, Leary?" That you weren't ready for. You thought dating. Your eyes are probably huge. He starts laughing, unrestricted bouts of guffawing. You smack his chest.

"If that's your idea of a joke..." You are confused.

"I'm not joking..." His tone is almost disbelieving itself. "It's probably the endorphins after the shag, but I'm not joking." He pauses, gives it a thought and rolls you underneath him. "Yep, I'm serious. Common, Leary, think about it, it makes perfect sense..."

"It doesn't!" You don't know why you are arguing, you are so happy. "You don't even know me! It's been..."

"Yeah, I know," he interrupts and quickly kisses your lips, "Twelve years, we've changed, and other poppycock. Who cares? It just means we have a better chance to succeed this time." You are staring at him, he is grinning from ear to ear. He didn't even say he loved you. Why would he? You've only just met. You think he is mental. You also think you might have loved him all through these years.

"Oh sod it..." You puff air out, you have nothing. "I guess, yes? I don't know… I s'pose, yeah… No, wait… Have you developed dementia since I saw you last?" He is laughing.

"Common, Leary, you know I'm right." Surprisingly, you do. You look into his eyes and smile.

"If it doesn't work out, I'm blaming you..."

"Sure," he is kissing your neck again.

"And I have developed some manky habits..."

"Ace," his teeth are gently nipping on your earlobe.

"And I can be difficult..."

"Belt it, Leary," he kisses you and then stops and smiles sunnily, "Oh, wait, it's 'belt it, Thorington' now." You open your mouth to tell him no way in hell you are changing your name, but he does that thing with his fingers, and you belt it.

**A/N: This might or might not have the third part ;)**


	76. The King and The Lightning

**A/N: A new idea is bubbling in my head. I'll have to clean up some older stories before it, but if I don't let this one out for a walk, it'll cause an aneurysm :)**

**A/N#2: ****Steampunk Hobbit AU**** anybody? :)**

**The King of Steam and The Ginger Lightning**

The soiree in the Elliot Thrandon's mansion had just reached its opulent bloom point, when John Thorington, Esq., the owner of the Durinson &amp; Co. Steamship Company Ltd., entered the dining hall in his customary black jacket, blue and silver floral tapestry and silk lapelled vest visible in the bright light of the gas lamps hanging under the ceiling. His masculine jaw set stubbornly, he proceeded to the table with drinks, followed by his infamous driver and bodyguard Graham Dwalinson, whose luscious sideburns and tattooed bald head were a well-known picture in the darkest corners of the city. It wasn't considered good manners to bring your help to a fancy evening such as this one, but it was established that Thorington didn't go anywhere without his lieutenant.

They were exchanging quiet whispers, when Thorington noticed a small redhead by the wall. And although she'd exchanged her previous outfit, leather trousers, white shirt and a black corset with thigh holsters and a utility belt, to an elegant white dress, he recognized her at once. A fashionable white top hat with albino peacock feathers and a pearl and opal pin, was sitting askew on her coiffured ginger curls. He touched Dwalinson's sleeve and pointed at the back door with his eyes. While his bodyguard moved to ensure she'd fail to escape through it if the circumstance arose, Thorington quickly walked up to her and tightly clasped his hand around her upper arm. She didn't jerk though and threw him a calm look from under her lashes.

"Mister Thorington, I presume," the pikey accent from before was gone, her voice melodic and confident, and she gracefully took a sip from the champagne flute she had in her left hand. "Pleasure to see you. And the second time in one day! If I didn't know better, I'd say you are following me." He snarled.

"Since you seem to know my name, it would be polite to give me yours." She smiled, her rouged mouth looked even wider, the upper lip curved, and he noticed the freckles peppering her turn-up nose. "And I would also like to know how you got here. Are you after Thrandon now after rummaging through my possessions?" She tilted her head and gave him a studying look.

"I do not remember rummaging through your possessions, Mister Thorington. I found the chest in the beach sand, and although they say you own the waters of this world, whatever is buried in no man's land… Well, as they say, finders, keepers."

"The key belongs to my family," he hissed through gritted teeth.

"It doesn't anymore. And you are hurting my arm, do not make a scene."

"Give it to me," he tightened his grip. He would despise hurting a woman, but something about her just made him livid.

"Miss Leary, how nice of you to join us," Thrandon's mesmerizing voice jerked them both out of a death stare contest they were engaged into. The tall blonde host of the party approached them, his habitual long brocade coat dragging behind him on the polished floor. "John, my friend, you have met Miss Leary as I can see. Such an honour to have the famous Ginger Lightning at my modest gathering!"

Thorington's head jerked, and he gaped at the small woman. He released her arm in shock. She stretched her hand with a fashionable clockwork cuff, and Thrandon had to bend almost in two to kiss her knuckles.

"Mister Thrandon, it's a pleasure to be here." She suddenly emitted a delicate chuckle. "It's not every day that I find myself in the company of two kings. The King of Timber and the King of Steam," she pronounced in a sing-song voice, and Thrandon smiled with his usual snake-like smirk.

"You are the royalty in here, my darling. After all, if not for your associates, none of us would have his empire. We are nothing without your lightning globes." She smiled benevolently and nodded.

The waltz started at the background, and Thrandon stretched his hand to her. "May I have the honour?" She accepted, and Thorington watched them walk to the dancefloor.

Dwalinson silently approached his master. "Is it the bird? Looks like'er, though clad like a lady this time." Thorington didn't answer, his cold blue eyes following the fluid movements of the redhead. She threw her head back, laughing at something Thrandon intimately whispered into her ear, her neck long and elegant, and the King of Steam ground his teeth. "What's she doin' with the pale judy?"

"Just like us, she'd need Thrandon's support if she decides to go for _Erebor_."

"How's she goin' do it? She only has the key, we have the map. And besides, she's just a lass."

"She isn't." Thorington quietly swore under his breath. "She is not just a thief either, as we thought." Dwalinson threw her an appraising look.

"Have to say she looks all jemmy, like a proper lady. Not like that twig of a lass we saw before. In these dresses they at least have the degs and nancy. Is it all cotton innit, though?" Dwalinson gave the nearest standing woman a suspicious look.

"I'm hardly interested in the content of her dress," Thorington sneered, "Except her corset pocket where she no doubt keeps the key. She is the Ginger Lightning, Dwalinson, the union leader of the Sky Bolts Catchers."

"What?" Dwalinsons jaw slacked. "That daffy twist?"

"That exact gril. And I think it's time to cut in." Thorington decisively headed towards the couple twirling on the dancefloor. Dwalinson grumbled under his breath.

"Aye, 'ere he goes. He'll shake a flannin with the Zappers too, is all. As if we haven't enough aggro with the Wood Tallywags." Dwalinson quickly downed another drink and sighed. The evening was picking up speed.


	77. Wander or Lost?

**Not All Who Wander Are Lost**

_For RagdollPrincess. __My darling, we talked about traveling from our world to ME so much that this happened :)_

"Thea, get your arse into my flat this very moment!" Thea Martin tumbled off her li-lo, her mobile pressed to her ear.

"Sod it, Wrennie, I'm partially deaf from this! What the…?"

"Belt it, and get to my place right this instant!" Her friend hung up, and Thea stared at the screen in shock. She had never in the twenty years she'd know Wren Leary had heard such tone from her. Firstly, Wren never swore. Secondly, she never raised her voice, if emotional she was more prone to hissing if anything. And of course, Wren Leary never ever in her bloody life had lost her composure. Thea grabbed her coat and rushed out of her flat.

Wren opened her door, and Thea quickly looked her over. She seemed unscathed, a bit dishevelled but fine.

"What the actual fuck, Wren?" The redhead was blanched, shaking and biting her bottom lip in the nervous habit Thea hadn't seen her childhood friend indulge in the last ten years.

"It… he is in the living room."

"Who he?" Thea asked carefully.

"Fuck me if I know," Wren twirled on her heels and disappeared in the depth of her flat. Wren Leary had just said "fuck." The world was surely ending. Thea shook her head and considered giving herself a slap to make sure she wasn't sleeping.

She followed Wren into the living room and froze in the doorframe. He, and it was indeed a he, was a short man, about an inch taller than Wren, who was ickle by the way, but about three times wider than her. He was also clad in some sort of barmy medieval armour. He looked bleeding angry and had a disproportionately long sword clasped in his right hand.

"Thea..." Wren's voice was shaking, "Allow me to introduce you to Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, a Dwarf from the line of Durin."

Thea looked at her friend to see if she was taking a piss. Wren clearly wasn't.

"A what what from the line of what what?"

"My name is Thorin Oakenshield, and I demand to know where I am," the bloke had a low commanding voice with a surprising Northern accent.

"London," answered the girls together.

"Earth," Wren specified, and Thea looked at her friend askew. Surely, Wrennie didn't assume the man in front of them was an alien. He was clearly mental, slightly dirty and… fit. Thea licked her lips. Through all and all he was fit. She looked closer, and yep, the bloke was smashing.

"Excuse us for a mo," Thea dragged her friend out of the room. "Spill it, Leary," she hissed at her friend. "Not every day there is a mental hottie in your living room!"

"Hottie?" Wren looked at her confused. "I didn't notice… Thea, you don't understand! He materialised in my living room! Like in sci-fi, there was a… don't know, like a portal, and he materialised! And then pulled out his sword and started yelling in some throaty language. Sounded like Turkish to me..."

Thea pressed her palm to Wren's forehead. "Wrennie..."

"I'm not hallucinating! I'm not arsed up or high! He just stepped out of some wobbly cloud. And then apparently since I am 'a fair maiden' he at least stopped swinging his sword around! But he killed Toby!" Toby was Wren's favourite ficus. She had unnatural relationships with plants.

Thea flopped on a chair in the kitchen where they were apparently hiding from an alien from another universe. Thea shortly lamented not watching that mental septic show Wren was fond of, with cowboys in space and shite. Maybe the short bloke in the living room wasn't speaking Turkish, maybe it was Chinese. The fit Canadian bloke in Wren's show was.

"What are you going to do?" Wren made a small circle around the kitchen.

"I don't know." She looked utterly lost. That was also new, Wren Leary was a know-it-all. Her lashes fluttered, and she looked at Thea pleadingly, "What do you think? Should I call coppers? They'll take him away… Probably lock him up in a mental institution…"

Thea pursed her lips, "Such a waste though… Have you seen those shoulders and hips?"

"Thea!" Wren looked at her aghast, "How can you even think about shag right now?! And no, I haven't noticed the hips, for goodness sake!"

"My fair ladies," the alien's voice came from the entrance to the kitchen, and both girls squeaked and jumped up. Thea pressed her hand to her chest.

"For fuck sake, mate, you scared us shitless!" The man wrinkled his nose, apparently Thea's expressions were a bit too much for him. What a sensitivity from a bloke with a giant sword in his hand! Thea gave him another look over, and decided that if Wren didn't want him she'd probably keep him.

"Lady Wren," the man gave Wren a small bow, and she made a step back from him. Thea shortly wondered if that bad break up Wren had had couple years ago was affecting her libido. Seriously, how can any woman with a pulse not want to jump his bones right there?

"Yes?" Wren's voice was coarse and slightly irritated. Apparently the break up also had fried her synopses.

"I understand that I have been transported to your dwelling by some sort of magic. I am hardly dim, I can understand I am in a place utterly different from my home. And I understand I'm intruding..." He looked significantly devastated, and Thea threw Wren a pleading look. Common, the bloke was a darling! And a gentleman! And hot, properly fit! "Is there any way for me to stay in your house in the hopes that the same magic might transport me back to Erebor?"

Wren was staring at him, her eyebrows frowned, and Thea couldn't help it anymore, "Common, Wren! He asked politely, and you have a spare room, after that wanker Auggie moved out." Wren's nostrils flared, and Thea rushed to fix her own blunder, "And you can finally have someone to help with your flower boxes! Look at him, he can surely move those heavy crates you've been struggling with!"

"I'd be delighted to be of any assistance," the bloke gave both of them another small bow, and Thea wondered if Wren was thick. Seriously, swoon! The redhead was still frowning, but under the double puppy stare, and the bloke knew what he was doing with those blue peepers, she caved in.

"You can stay but I have a taser, so you know." The bloke's eyebrows jumped up.

"Beg your pardon, my lady, I am not familiar with a taser. Is it a weapon?" Wren groaned and walked back into the living room, haughtily passing the bloke. He looked after her, and that's when it clicked in Thea's head. Short or not, of the line of what-not or whatever, he was still a bloke. And he just checked out Wren's arse! A sly smile spread on Thea's face. Oh, Wrennie needed it, it was time. Enough moping around, the chick was starved. Thea was a good friend. She was an excellent friend, and selfless too. She came up to the alien and put her hand on his shoulder.

"So, Mister Shield, let me give you a few pieces of priceless advice. And I suggest you listen attentively..."

XXX

Thea was ringing Wren three days later but she had to wait for quite a while for her friend to pick up.

"So, how's your alien?" She tried to keep her tone non-suggestive, but it didn't work out. She could practically hear Wren rolling her eyes.

"Still here," Wren's tone was grumpy.

"What's he doing?" There was a pause there, and then Wren puffed air out.

"He is apologising to the telly."

"What?"

"He hit it with a chair, there is a crack in it. I tried to explain to him what it is. I don't think I succeeded…" Her tone was exasperated. "And now he is apologising to David Tennant, because he thinks he hurt someone called Doctor Who. He freaked out when they showed an Ood..." There was some rustling at the background, and Thea heard Wren's yell, "Oh no, not the microwave! It will… Oh no!" There were some louder noises on the other end, and Wren hung up. Thea sighed. She had told him to not take any initiative with that control freak she had for a friend. The shortest way into her knickers was listening and nodding and looking at her with adoring eyes. Bugger, why men never listen?

XXX

Three weeks later the atmosphere in Wren's flat seemed to calm down, the accidental flatmates seemed to have found some sort of balance, but to Thea's deep disappointment no bonking was taking place. Perhaps, the shortie didn't understand her advice. He did seem rather confused when she mentioned "rumpling sheets." To think of it, if he was from some equivalent of Middle Ages, he probably was all chaste and honourable, no boffing before wedding and shite, and perhaps assumed she was talking about laundry.

"Hey, Wrennie, so how is it going?" The usual pause followed, and Thea prepared herself for another report on a disaster the bloke conjured in Wren's flat. As useful as he turned out to be in the greenhouse Wren had on her balcony, he was still completely daft with technology. Just two days ago he botched up a toaster. It was the seventh in a row.

"He is in a shower," Wren's voice was astonishingly raspy.

"Oh?" Thea straightened up in the armchair she was lounging in.

"Yeah… He actually does it a lot now, taking baths and showers, I mean. And then he slipped there..." Wren sounded as if she just saw a ghost. Well, in her case, an alien. Apparently, in a shower.

"Tell me, Wrennie dear, did you rush into the bathroom to help him?" Judging by the tense silence on the other end, she did indeed. "And?"

"The door wasn't locked, and he was fine, he was already vertical..." It was getting very interesting very quickly.

"Yes?" Thea purred into the mobile and could just imagine Wren's giant eyes with dilated pupils.

"Like I said... He was vertical..." Oh, the things were looking up, Thea thought. Indeed, the things were looking… up.

XXX

A week later Wren didn't pick up when Thea called. She was sent into voicemail, and when she finally got a ring back, her so called sexdar was ringing so loudly that she considered sending Mr. What's-His-Shield a basket of roses.

"So, Wrennie, my darling, how is it going?"

"Fine," Wren was never good in faking non-chalance.

"Oh? Lovely," Thea was metaphorically circling her victim, "And how's our darling alien?"

"He is fine," Wren's voice was so unnaturally even that Thea wondered how Wren could get away with any lie in her life at all.

"Lovely," Thea repeated and murmured, "So what the two of you have been up to these days?" The pause stretched, and let's face it, Wren Leary was never good at withstanding Thea's tense silence.

"Alright!" She yelled, "I shagged him! He shagged me! Oh blast, we shagged each other! And he is enormous! And I came seven time! And I think I am in love with him!" That Thea didn't expect. Oops. She should have known it was never just a shag with Wren.

"Ummm, Wrennie... is he aware? Because you just yelled it, and half of London knows it for sure..." Thea heard a dull thud of what she supposed was Wren's head hitting a table.

"He can't hear me, he is on the balcony, watering flowers. And he is singing. Thea, he has the most gorgeous voice I've ever heard in my life..." Three more dull thuds followed. Thea facepalmed herself. The chick had it bad.

"What am I to do?" Wren's voice was miserable, and Thea sadly shook her head. She just wanted Wren to loosen up a bit. Damn this reasonable uptight type. They always end up hurt.

XXX

Thea arrived at Wren's flat for their usual Saturday jog, and the door opened under her enthusiastic knock. Apparently it became an odd new habit of Wren's. She was careless these days, after all she lived with a five foot four killing machine. Thea would actually want to see the face of a burglar who would decide to break into that flat and would be met by a terrifying snarling shortie, swinging a giant sword, and Thea meant the metal one in this case. He'd also be probably starkers, considering the amount of shagging going on there these days. Wren was blushing like a beet but Thea had always been good at pulling it out of her friend. Let's face it, after finally deciphering Wren's embarrassed mumbling, Thea was impressed. And she was rarely impressed. Good on you, Mr. King Under the Mountain!

Thea stepped into the flat, but the sounds she heard from inside the bedroom told her Wren wasn't going for a jog today. Thea got it, Wren hardly needed additional work-out these days.

"Oh, Thorin!... Oh yes!... Oh my god… Yes!"

"Oh… Ah… Wren, ghivashel… Oh, kurdu!"

"Oh Thorin, yothur!... More! Yothur!…" Thea assumed that was the Dwarf lingo of sorts. Wren had always been good with languages.

"Sanyasith… Wren…" The masculine and Wren's shrieky screams were gaining crescendo, and Thea smiled approvingly. She turned around to walk out of the flat, when she heard the shortie's triumphant roar accompanied by a very impressive growl, "Mine!"

Wren joined his cries with a reverent, "Yours, oh yes, Thorin, I'm yours!.."

Thea closed the door behind her and felt slightly uneasy. She'd hate to lose a friend, but on the other hand she got it. She'd follow a bloke with such talents through a portal to another universe as well. She started running towards a park. She needed a new partner for jogging. And at the moment she also needed a "work-out."

P.S.

It took Mr. and Mrs. Oakshield three years to finally decide on moving out from Wren's flat. Not that either of them particularly wanted the portal back to his home open again, but they were sort of keeping pretense that they were still waiting on it. John, and seriously, they couldn't come up with a better name for him, found a brill job in a company specialising in manufacturing faux medieval armour, Wren got preggo two months after his arrival, apparently his prolific alien sperm didn't give an arse about any contraception available, and once the second sprog was on the way they finally had to accept that the flat was getting too small.

Thea was helping to pack their winter coats from a closet when Wren pulled some old box from it. She started laughing, and in her hands Thea saw the very brigandine Mr. Oakenshield was wearing when he stepped into this very living room from a 'wobbly cloud'.

That's how John found the two of them, sitting on the carpet, giggling, and seemingly talking about fishing, considering the gestures they were making. Wren was holding her hands in the air, her open palms about ten inches away from each other, and Thea fell backwards on the floor roaring with laughter.

"Evening, ladies," he honestly couldn't understand why his polite greeting caused another bout of laughter, and then his now rather bulbous wife ran up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed him hard, which always seemed to slightly turn off his brain, and he blinked and stared at her.

"Good evening, Mr. Oakenshield, we were just talking about you." Thea nodded at the background, and he finally saw the box they had between them on the floor.

"Oh, my armour..." He came up to it and pulled out his tunic from the box. All of his belongings were cleaned and carefully folded, and he looked at them pensively. He then shifted his eyes at his wife and saw her studying him. She was clearly waiting for his reaction, and he saw a shadow of insecurity in her eyes. He grabbed her hand and threw to Thea over his shoulder while decisively marching out of the room, "We will be right back, lady Thea!"

"Oh, do take your time," Thea giggled.

They did and emerged from the kitchen dishevelled, their lips slightly swollen, good twenty minutes later. Wren was cheery as a lark, and Thea shook her head warm-heartedly. She did love it when her plans worked out.


	78. King's Cross Station

**A/N: NO, NO, NO! I'm not starting another multi-chapter *head banging***

Thorin wandered the King's Cross, lazily chewing his gum and staring at the shop windows. The barmy steel structure supporting the roof was old news, for the last three years he had to look at it every first of September. This year his chauffeur dropped him off too early, and Thorin was bored. Dwalin and Bofur would obviously arrive at the very last moment, Bombur would be out of breath, Bifur as usual his nose down in his iPad. Thorin stopped in front of a schedule board, and then he caught a reflection of a chick sitting at a table near the Upper Crust with a mug of coffee.

He discreetly shifted so he could see her better, the black background of the board giving him an excellent view. She was definitely around his age, maybe fifteen, but definitely not older than him. She was small, a redhead, in skinny jeans and a baggy sweater under a military jacket, colourful scarf and grandpa glasses. Her hair was a barmy mop and was sticking out from a messy bun. There was a backpack at her feet, and all and all she looked… fit. And nervous, she looked very nervous. He spit out the gum in a wrapper from his pocket, turned on his heels and approached her with a wide grin.

"Wotcher," his mentally thanked his voice for not breaking. "How are you doing?" She lifted her eyes from her mug and started blinking frantically. It was probably some sort of a nervous habit, but looked cute. He also noticed her gulp nervously.

"Hi, I'm good, thanks." She had an obvious Irish accent. She also had very sexy lips, they were bright, the bottom one plump, no make up. She nervously pushed the glasses that were slowly descending down her turn up nose back to their place.

"Do you mind if I join you? I can get myself a cuppa and sit with you. You look like you are having kittens." She looked like a kitten herself. She blinked again, it did look adorable, and tried to discreetly check the clock on the wall. He grinned wider. "I also have just twenty minutes."

"I have a train at 11." She patted a pocket on her oversized khaki jacket and fixed the glasses again.

"Ace," he quickly got himself a coffee, he didn't like it black, but he didn't want to waste time, a latte would take forever, and he plopped at the table with her. "So, what's your name?" She winced slightly, and he rushed to fix the situation, "I'm John." He always said he was John, it was easier than what usually followed if he was honest.

"I'm Wren," she apparently was OK with her name. Or not, since she blushed. That looked amazing, her cheekbones flushed up, and she fidgeted with her empty mug.

"Cool name. Are you Irish?" He realised he shifted closer to her. She smelled of lilacs, and he liked how a little curl was bobbing near her ear when she would look up at him. She was ace, so fresh and unusual, and he pushed his hand into his pocket to pull out his mobile. He needed her number.

"Yeah, but I've moved with my parents here this year. Well, I'm being sent to school, and they have moved. But my dad travels..." She trailed away and blushed harder. She grabbed her mug and tried to take a sip. He knew it was empty, and he liked her fidgeting.

"Ace. What kind of school?" She suddenly jumped on her feet.

"I'll get another cuppa for myself."

"You won't have time to drink it."

"I'll take it in a cup," she rushed to the counter, and he quietly swore. It started sterling, and now the pull was going pear-shaped. She seemed to like him though, he knew the signs, he was good with chicks. He looked her over from his table. Yeah, she was fit. He could guess the shapely arse under that sweater, long slender legs, straight back, the hair was brill. He leaned at the back of the chair, wondering what got arsed up.

She came back with a cup to go but didn't sit. She was so titchy that she was almost the same height even though he was sitting.

"Listen, John, you seem nice… And..." She stuttered and stared at the plastic lid of her cup.

"Yeah, I get it..."

"No!" Her eyes flew up to his face, and she chewed at her bottom lip. He envied her extensively, he'd like a taste too. He rarely liked chicks that much from the start, but she was so ickle, so bright, so fit… "It's not this, but I'm going to this school, and it's a boarding school. And what's the point, right?" The red on her cheeks was burning furiously, and he smiled. She was right, but somehow he didn't want to give her up so quickly.

"How about you give me your number, and we can chat or something, and then we'll see? I mean, do you have FB? Or Instagram?" She was studying his face now, her eyes wide open, pupils dilated, the colour was odd, greenish brownish, and then she nodded.

She pulled her Nexus out of the jacket pocket, and an envelop fell out. He bent down and picked it up. He saw the familiar seal, red and hastily broken, and the easily recognisable crest, with the name, and _Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus_ written underneath it as if on a ribbon. He remembered his own very well. His father threw a party, and since then it had been kept in a glass case in his office in the Ministry. He straightened up, dumbfounded, they both stared at the envelope, and then she suddenly dove in and pressed her lips to his. Hers were better than he managed to fantasize in the last ten minutes. She tasted brilliant, and his head swam.

"I can't give you my number, but I'm very, very sorry..." She whispered into his lips, "You are such a ride..." She straightened up, a curl brushed his cheek, then she grabbed the letter and rushed away.

He looked at the clock on the wall. It was seven to 11, and he suddenly guffawed. She was certainly older than eleven, he wondered why she would even carry the letter with her. But then again the train wasn't that big, she would be easy to find. She was probably a transfer student, and he got up, wondering what house she was in. And then he noticed one mitten on the floor. He remembered the second one clenched in her hand, it was too warm for mitts, but she was overdressed altogether. The mitt was white and fluffy, and he lifted it to his eyes. It also smelled of lilacs. He started walking, his mobile vibrating in his pocket, it was surely Dwalin, but he didn't want to shake off this funny ticklish feeling. She would be on a train, and he would give her the mitt, and they would have a whole year ahead of them. He walked without thinking, his feet automatically carrying him to Platform 9¾.

**So yeah, I'll just leave it here... *hissy whisper* I have another three chapters written.**


	79. Twenty Three Minutes Or So

**A/N: Dopamine07, that's not what you asked for, but it was just lying around so I decided I might as well finish it and post it :) I remember about the one I promised, just waiting for my Muse to cheer up :)**

**A/N#2: I think it was written during some boring conference, and it just hops and bobs around. Well, once again my writing is hardly literature, and some of you, my darlings, might still get a bit of enjoyment out of this nonsense :)**

* * *

"Hey, I'm downstairs. Can I come up?" Leary's voice sounds a bit odd, but again she just woke him up in the middle of the night, and his brain is a bit foggy.

He buzzes her in. The door opens, he stares at her, his jaw slacked. They've been mates for a few years but he's never seen her so... well, bleeding fit. She is wearing a tiny dress, black, sparkly, and high heeled sandals that have some barmy straps going up her delicate ankles and shapely calves. Her hair is up, and she does have a very beautiful neck. There is a tiny golden wallet like thingie in her hands, and she is bladdered.

That's a feat in its own, since she doesn't drink. There is absolutely no happy squiffy time between her having one drink and her conking out on the floor. They've been mates for a while, and he once had to transport her unconscious little body when she had a fizzy drink that had a shot hidden in it.

"I'm drunk," her tone is warning, and he chuckles. Wren Leary, prim and proper, a bit of a prude, glasses wearing, Grammar nazi Wren Leary is mentioning in advance she is drunk. The evening promises to be interesting.

He lets her in, and she haughtily marches into his lounge. She then trips over his carpet, makes a few convulsive waving movements in the air, and he catches her and places her on the li-lo. She hums gratefully and then slides down, stretching on the li-lo in all her unimpressive height and starts wiggling her feet.

"Bloody hell, these shoes are tosh..." She shakes her tiny feet some more, it looks like what cats do when they accidentally step in a puddle, and he sits in his armchair.

"So, Wren, love, it's three at night, and you are drunk. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He is suppressing laughter, she doesn't take kindly to mockery, but she is adorable beyond measure. She suddenly sits up and stares at him.

"I need to talk to you. I was going to do it tomorrow, but then we went to a pub with some of my girlfriends, and we talked and talked, and Thea said I should just go for it, and she had about ten tequilas in her by then, so she told me to just go for it, and I decided I could potentially manage one, and then a cabbie was rude, he thought I am..." She wrinkles her nose, she is a Grammar nazi after all, "He thought I _was_ an escort, and here I am." He lifts one brow and keeps quiet letting her elaborate. "May I have a glass of water, please?"

He finally can't keep it down anymore and guffaws. When he comes back with a glass of water, she is half asleep, but she still commands him to sit back into the armchair in front of her, and then suddenly she squares her shoulders and starts a long convoluted speech. It involves some musings on her age, their amicable relationships, which is a rarity between professors at the adjoint uni departments, usually it is a poorly concealed hostility, he chuckles to that again, then she describes her stable financial situation, good genetics and finally just before some big question, which was probably the whole point of the spiel, she freezes and heady bright blush spills on her cheeks.

He finds it endlessly entertaining, he finds her entertaining, and fun and fit, and a great mate, and let's face.. well, perfect, but that's not the point right now.

"Yes, Wren, thank you for all this wonderfully private information, but what can I do for you?"

"I want your baby," she blurts out, and he decides he is hallucinating. He considers giving himself a slap but then again he should have known he was sleeping. No way in hell Wren Leary wears such sexy outfits and wants his baby.

"I'm sorry, what?" She shakes her head, probably trying to straighten her thoughts, and he thinks he needs a drink.

"Sorry, I didn't say it right. I want a baby. And I think you are a perfect donor." She squares her shoulders again and goes into another lecture, and she is using her lecturing voice, all smooth and logical, and his head is spinning. She is describing his genealogy and financial status now, and then she goes as far as discussing his "evident fear of commitment," he wants to argue but she is right, he doesn't date for longer than a month, and then she drops the bomb on him.

"And I mean, we are slightly in love with each other, that should help right?" She is completely calm and collected now, if one disregards the fact that she is cross-eyed and is gently swaying from side to side.

"I'm sorry, what?" He is checking his forehead, it is clearly a delirium.

"Well, we spend a lot of time together, we… hang out, we go to theatres together, I've stayed on your li-lo endless amount of time, we co-wrote an article on Anna Karenina..."

"Wren," his voice is squeaky, "we are mates!"

"We hug!" Her counterargument makes him emit a strange gurgling noise.

"Many people hug," he realised he is saying some rubbish. He switches his tune, "Wren, you are gay!"

"I'm bi, I have been lying to you because I wanted to be your friend and didn't want us to hook up," there is an idiotic blissful smile on her face, she thinks she has been very smart apparently, "I hooked up with Anderson last Christmas, we shagged for two weeks. I'm bi." She starts unclasping her sandals, apparently they hurt her tiny cute feet, he is staring at her ponytail that is gently swishing from side to side, and a new thought comes.

"So we are not talking about wanking into a tube, are we?" She lifts her face to him and shakes her head. He has no answer to this.

"I am absolutely serious here, John. If you think about it, which you have every right to and I will obviously give you plenty of time for it, it makes perfect sense. You don't want a child, but in my estimation would not object to intimacy with me. Meaning we both will get what we want. I will get a baby with majestic genetics and no commitment from you. On the other hand, we have managed to remain mates for several years so hopefully we will manage that further on," she finally shakes one shoe off and emits a low moan of ecstasy. In the combination with what he was currently imagining this sound makes something explode at the back of his head. She is jerking the strap on the second one, and her cute angular face is scrunched in distress. He kneels in front of her and starts unclasping the tiny buckle. Her long slender leg is right in front of his nose, the skin is pale but radiant, and the sandal falls on the floor, and he is left with a tiny foot on his palm. The toes are small and delicate, red varnish on them, and he suddenly leans in and presses his lips to her knee. He tells himself he is testing her, and he is lying. She croaks and jerks. Her skin tastes amazing.

"We can't start right now," her voice is squeaky, and he gives her a disbelieving look. Is she serious? "I am drunk and I'm not ovulating any road. But next week should be fine." He decides he will deal with her later. He pushed her on the li-lo, she is not fighting, he covers her with a quilt and rushes in the sanctuary of his bedroom. She is still talking behind him, but he thinks he'll just wait till morning and she will be back to normal and they will go back to being mates, and not asking each other for a non-committal baby making shag.

* * *

They don't. She wakes up in the morning with the predictable excruciating headache, he nurses her back to health, she is a ginger, she can't take any painkillers. He brings her broth and brushes her hair. She is whining, but he knows she is in real pain. At some point she starts crying silently and desperately. He once had to help her through migraine before, she feels better during the headaches when someone is near her, and nothing beats better blood circulation as a treatment, so he is brushing her mad curls, and she is mumbling words of gratitude.

She wakes up the second time around dinner and drags herself first in the bathroom, he sees her small figure, she is plodding holding on to the wall, he is pretending to be absorbed in his laptop, and then to his kitchen. In the morning she changed in his tee and PJ bottoms he gave to her and she had to roll up about twenty times. She sits on the chair in front of him and drops her head on the table. He places a mug with her favourite Earl Grey in front of her, she is pale and has purple shadows under her eyes, and still… He prohibits himself to think about how she is still adorable and he wants to kiss that knee again.

"So, Leary," he is keeping his voice down. "Did you get over your idea of a sprog with me?" He is teasing her, and she groans. She then lifts her head, props it on her small fist and gives him a tortured look.

"Of course not, but if you feel like sniding me at the moment can it wait till when there are no trains running inside my head in circles?"

"You are not over the idea?" He is gaping at her, and she gives him a confused look.

"Why would I be over it? It wasn't a drunk outburst, I gave it a proper thought before. Again, you can say 'no' and we can close the topic, but if you feel like lecturing me, spare me in the name of Rassilon." She takes a small sip from her mug, and he sits down in front of her.

It takes him about five minutes to arrive to the most important decision in his adult life. He is no wuss, he is a Thorington. One of his ancestors was a pirate, there were couple Crusaders, a Roman general and a copper that crossed the ocean to Chicago to neutralise a bootlegger gang from Ireland.

"Leary, I want to shag you, to be honest even now that you look like a kitten with a stomach flu, but you were right. We are not mates. At least I am not. And now that I know how you look in a tiny dress, forgive my treating you like a one-dimensional character in a chick flick, and since you started talking about us shagging and that is all I now think about, I decisively offer you to date, shag and make a baby. Moving in together is obligatory, getting married is optional, but my mother would love to gift you with Nana's pearls so I think you should agree. They will look lovely on your neck." She is frozen with a mug mid-air. He is feigning the most bloody nonchalant nonchalance in his life, and he doesn't care it's a tautology. He can see her giant brain working on it, and he needs to finish her up before she runs. "You have twenty three minutes to make a decision. I'll be in the bedroom. I suggest you agree on my offer. But be aware that I'm shagging you into the sheets if you come there." He places his mug on the table carefully and decisively walks in his bedroom.

* * *

He leans back at the headboard of his oaken bed and folds his arms on the chest. Minute five. He is certain she is thinking it through. She has an unusual way of looking at things. She is basically barmy, and her mind works in zigzags. He adores that. He can bet couple hundred quid she is thinking about something random, like where they would go on vacation if she agreed, or something. Minute eight. He closes his eyes. He needs her to agree. He almost asked her out last week. He wants her in his bed. He wants her everywhere. Minute eleven. There is some bang, she moves somewhere in his flat. He wonders if she is pulling that bloody dress on again to leave. Minute twelve. Judging by the sounds she is in the bathroom. Minute sixteen. A door bangs again and there is pitter pattering of her bare feet in the hall. Minute seventeen. He checks time for the bleeding twentieth time in the last minute. She doesn't need to, she has the perfect perception of time. They tested it many times, her internal clock is impeccable. He feels irritated, she knows how little time she has left. She might as well stop dragging it and come and tell him to sod off.

Minute twenty. She opens the door and comes in. She is not wearing the bleeding black dress. She is not wearing anything. The small curls around her face are wet. She has taken a shower, that's what the noises were. She comes up and climbs on his bed. She is now straddling him, and he is staring at the freckles on her nose.

"First things first," her tone is completely even, "I didn't expect this result. I did indeed just want your baby. I didn't know you'd react this way and I wasn't aiming for it." He nods. All he can think about is that she has magnificent tits. His mouth waters but he doesn't move. "Secondly, I was slightly in love with you, just like I said. But that was before the whole macho twenty three minutes and take it or sod off thing just blew my mind." Her voice is suddenly nothing but a purr, and his cock jerks. He meets her eyes, she is smiling to him slyly. He cups the back of her head and pulls her to his lips.

* * *

He is running up the stairs jerking off his coat and his jacket on the way. She is standing at the half open door in his robe, and he falls into the parlour. While he is toeing his shoes off, she is quickly opening buttons on his shirt.

"Blimey, Leary, stop wasting time on the shirt, you need my lower half for that!" He tumbles clumsily in and grabs the buckle of his belt.

"I still need your chest, Thorington, belt it!" She pushes the shirt down his shoulders and he is already halfway out of his trousers. He starts hopping like a dimwit, she starts laughing, and he growls, finally untangles out of his trousers, pulling the socks off at the same time, and then he throws her over his shoulder, she is squealing, her arse up in the air in the most humiliating way, and he rushes into the bedroom. She is roaring with laughter and loudly reminds him that ovulation lasts a wee bit longer that the fifteen seconds he is trying to save by jumping over furniture.

Just to take a piss out of her he changes his direction sharply and deposits her on the dining table. She started squeaking and reminding him it was a gift from his Grand Uncle but he stops her mouth in the best traditions of Benedick she is so fond of. She is immediately warm wax in his hands, her legs go around his waist, and she purrs. He shuffles getting rid of his pants, and when his cock slides into her she emits this wonderful raspy moan he adores. The table is the perfect height, he is standing, she is spread open in front of him and he can watch her face. She is gasping and arching her back. He adores how much she forgets about everything when they shag, her hands wander her body and then she claws at his forearms. Apparently his forearms were another thing that convinced her to go for it. Whatever works. He is moving deeply and rhythmically, her legs shift, and her feet are on his shoulders. That squeezes him so much more that his rhythm stutters. She is getting louder and that spurs him. He leans ahead, her legs open up again, and he catches her nipple between his lips. She is so beautiful, ickle, cool, fluid, and his head is swimming. She is mumbling something highly inappropriate but he really doesn't need any more stimuli. He grabs her hips and jerks her into him. She comes with a scream, and he swears dirtily. She has just clenched around him so tightly that he sees purple spots swimming in front of his eyes. His orgasm is mindblowing, it is always different with her, and every time he thinks this one is definitely the best he's ever had. He pressed his hands into the table on the sides of her body, his head is full of lead, and she is studying the ceiling.

"I think we did it," her tone is pensive. He is still shaking from the shivers of pleasure running through his body.

"You don't know that," he lazily ponders between a bath and the bed. It is his lunch break but no way in hell he is going back to his office. His cock is still twitching in her but he already wants more.

"You don't know it that I don't know that," her tone is equally lazy. "You are just always randy and want to keep on shagging like bunnies." She is dangling one of her adorable feet. He bends down and places his elbows on the table on her sides. She smiles to him and strokes the sides of his face.

"You promised to me we would continue like that if everything went OK till the very end," he leans in and kisses her shoulder. She has very beautiful shoulders.

"And even if not I pledge to get you off in the most inventive and obscene ways all through my pregnancy," she gives him a Roman legion salute, and he guffaws. He moves away and helps her off the table. They decide on the bath, and he is slowly moving his hands in the suds, occasionally brushing on her skin in the warm water. She is relaxed, pressed into his side, her eyes closed. He quickly kisses her lips.

"Leary, since we seem to be having so much trouble with the names, you have twenty three minutes to choose between Thomas and Dain." She opens one eye and sticks her tongue at him.

"Thomas for the first one." He is staring at her, and she drops her head back on the edge of the bath again. He decides just to go with it and grabbing her smooth warm sides he pulls her into a kiss.


	80. Not That Kind of Christmas Story

**A/N: My darlings, it's a Christmas smut :) If you want fluff, I'll be posting the last part of _All I Want For Christmas _tomorrow, on Christmas Eve. This one is definitely not T rated ;)**

**A/N#2: This fic is a companion piece to RagdollPrincess' chapter 7 in her one-shot collection, **_**Thundering Moments of Tenderness Rage. **_**You might want to have a look at it to understand where Kili got a shiner :) And Wynni will be posting her companion piece, with her OC Bri and Fili.**

**Also RagdollPrincess will be posting a follow-up chapter to her fic. Check it out when it pops up! :)**

* * *

Thorin opened the cab door for Wren who gracefully minced out of the hair salon he was picking her up from. She was holding the trail of her long white coat with two fingers, delicately hopping over slushy puddles in her tiny bronze stilettos. He could see the sequin champagne dress shortly twinkle in the low cut of the coat, and his shoulders tensed. He liked the dress, but there was no way to put a bra under it. And he had just returned from a business trip after two weeks, and not having access to her body for so long had already made him restless. Her small breasts under one layer of fabric and the short skirt of that dress, down to the middle of her shapely thighs might become an issue. She jumped in his arms and hung on his neck.

"Missed me, Durinson?" She purred, and her cool little fingers snaked under the collar of his shirt. He caught her mouth. He assumed she'd forgive his lack of manners. Apparently she did, a slender leg went around his, and he deepened the kiss. The cabbie honked, and she laughed into his mouth.

He moved her away from him, still holding one strong hand, and she started climbing into the cab. Her lovely knees flashed in front of his eyes, and she closed the coat again. He slid near her on the seat and immediately pulled her into him.

"Where to?" The cabbie's tone was exasperated, and she gleefully gave him the address, while Thorin was already kissing her neck.

He couldn't help it and pushed his hand in the cut of the coat and the dress at the same time, and he felt her take a sharp breath in. One orange curl brushed his nose, and he nipped the radiant pale skin on the side of her throat.

"I don't like it when you are just out of a salon. From all their stuff I can't smell you," his whisper was raspy, and she turned and kissed him forcefully. And then pulled his hand out of her cleavage.

"Behave, Durinson, we will be thrown out of a cab. Again." There was an impish grin hiding in the corners of her red lips, and he growled.

"I'm willing to risk it," he grabbed her around her waist and jerked her towards him.

"The gratuity will be generous I promise," she merrily called to the cabbie who rolled his eyes and concentrated on the road. It was snowing, and he thankfully was engaged not to see how Thorin's hand migrated back into his wife's dress.

"Thorin..." Her tone was cautioning, "Do you want to just go home maybe? I would prefer Fili's party of course. Everyone will be there, and it's a tradition after all. Do you think you'll survive it?" He hummed noncommittally into the collarbone he was kissing. "And we are picking up Bri from her hotel now, so you need to get rid of this," she pointed her little index finger on his erection straining from his trousers. "Think of something dull and annoying." He straightened up and gave her a sarcastic look from a cocked brow. "How was the trip?" He leaned back on the seat and gave her a warm smile.

"Dull and annoying." She laughed and started fixing her dress. The curls had already started escaping the do, and he picked up one and twirled it between his fingers.

"I have missed you," his tone was serious, and she looked at his askew.

"And I you, but you are here now," she leaned in and quickly kissed him. And then again. And again. And then he stopped noticing anything except for the pair of familiar soft lips and a small hand that now repeated his maneuver from a few minutes before, sliding under his coat and jacket. And just before she jerked it back he remembered what he fingers would bump in there. Kissing her always made his noggin empty.

She moved away and lifted her brows questioningly. "Thorin..." She drew out. He sighed and pulled the velvet case out. "I thought we agreed no gifts this year. The trip in February is our gift to each other, remember?" He smiled to her and pecked her lips.

"I couldn't help it." He stretched his hand to her, and she pouted. And opened her clutch getting a small package out of it. It was wrapped in merry paper with snowmen, and he guffawed.

"Mine is cheap," her tone was dischuffed, and he laughed harder. "It doesn't break the rules. This," she pointed at the black velvet, "Definitely will!"

"Open it already," he hurried her, he loved her face when he'd guess right, and she sighed dramatically, and they exchanged the packages.

"Oh Thorin..." He loved that breathy tone, her lips wrapped around his name, her eyes shining, and she threw her arms around his neck. "I love it, I love it, I love it!"

"It's from that small shop..."

"On Jean-Médecin, yes," she was clutching the pendant in her hand, and he felt her squeeze his neck harder. The necklace was a simple silver chain and a small round bird for a pendant, they had walked by it in a shop window every day when they were in Nice, and the shop was always closed. She really liked it and kept on saying that they would have to pay twice as much for it home. Every time they would discuss that it was definitely a wren and then laugh that they sounded like a broken record. He wasn't going to tell her that, but the shop was closed this time again. He spend a week and an obscene amount of money to find someone to replicate it.

She moved away from him, and he saw her eyes were suspiciously shiny.

"I feel bad now," her tone was sincerely upset, and he cupped her face. "I got you a randy gift. And you are being so wonderful, and it's so... " She blinked frantically, trying to spare her mascara, and he laughed again.

"I am a man, Wren. Randy gift is the best gift. And you are always the thoughtful one, let me have this one time." She laughed shakily and handed the pendant to him. She turned around, and he clasped it at her gorgeous nape, not forgetting to press his lips to her neck. Salon products or not, she smelled and tasted divine. He nuzzled little curls on the elegant nape, and she twisted from under his ministrations.

"Open your inadequate gift, Durinson," she grumbled and twitched her nose. He adored the nose.

Under the snowmen paper he was surprised to find a book, a small leather bound book, exquisite buckram, elegant print of the title. _Pearls and Rosebuds. _He opened the first page, and another bout of guffaws erupted out of him. _Treasures of the world of erotic poetry. _And then he saw that there were bookmarks. Neat ribbons of red silk were placed between pages, and he opened a random one. Wren cherished books too much to underline anything but the poems were short and to the point. And graphic. Blimey, they were.

He felt very, very hot and slowly turned his head to Wren. Her pupils were giant, lips slightly open, and he toppled her on the seat, ignoring the cabbie's indignified "Seriously, dude?!" This time Thorin's hand slid up a slender thigh, she gasped, and he cupped her between her legs.

"I'm shagging you at that party." He whispered in her ear and saw her teeth sink in her bottom lip, her cheekbones burning. She didn't move away though, and he felt the silky lace under his fingers was moist. "You are the clever one here, find me a place." He pressed his thumb into her clitoris, and she moaned. She could never keep her voice down. "Or there will be witnesses." He pushed the dress aside with his nose and quickly kissed a puckered bright nipple. This moan was louder, and her eyes closed.

"God I love this family!" Bri's jolly voice made Wren jolt and thrash under him. Thorin groaned in frustration. His head was foggy, and he honestly didn't care, but apparently the cab was stationary and Bri, Wren's childhood Septic friend, had already opened the door and was giving them a chuffed studying look. Wren was insistently pushing him off her, trying to fix her dress at the same time. His hand was still on her knickers. He didn't want to move it, there was a little bow on them, over her red curls, he had a kink for bows. And she knew it. "For cryin' out loud, here they say Southerners ain't classy enough, and you two are makin' out like hogs in heat!" Wren moaned, this time from embarrassment, and Thorin dropped his head on his wife's chest. She better found a place for their alone time quickly. She smelled of her usual lilacs, and even the presence of the cabbie and the Southern totty was not going to stop him in about five minutes.

* * *

Wren was having the raddest evening. Everyone was there, the usual fifty or more people do, she waved to Balin who saluted her with his tumbler, couple of some obscure relatives were carrying in another crate of wine, and there was drama. Kili and Reese had obviously just shagged, after which Fili equally clearly had given Kili a shiner. Fili had trouble breathing, Bri had chosen dress well. She was generally gorgeous, all curves and fire and curls, and the poor sod had been bedraggled for three years, but somehow never made his move. There were feverish spots on his cheeks, and tonight might be the night. Sometimes Wren didn't understand the Durinsons mental processes. Although Thorin's was quite transparent at the moment. His eyes were hungry, she was chatting with Reese, and then he pushed the book into her hands locked behind her back.

"Page twenty five." He quickly whispered in her ear, and she shivered. God, the man had an illegal voice. She quickly excused herself and pretended to rush to the loo.

_Let my tongue worship you, and my mouth be your throne. _Bollocks. Wren squirmed in her wet knickers. Considering how fond he was of this exact position, she had to splash some cold water on her face. She quickly flipped through pages, tried to fix her hair, gave up on the idea and walked back in the room.

Thorin was finishing an anecdote, Bri's silver laughter was rolling, Bofur and Bifur were nodding approvingly, Fili was grinning like an idiot, and Reese chuckled into her wineglass. Wren looped her hand under his arm, he smiled to her from his height, god, she loved the height, and when he leaned in to her lips she whispered, "Page eleven." His pause was almost impossible to notice, but it was there.

He picked up the book from her hands in a smooth movement, the conversation continued, another group of guests joining them, and then he excused himself. Wren assumed that written in 1974 by Lucille Clifton _Come with your rod/ that twists/ and is a serpent_ should do it for him. He did have a twist to his cock, a curve towards his left shoulder, and as intelligent as he was, he was still a man, the flattery of _rod _and _serpent _would hit the spot. He was absent for a while, probably trying to subdue the 'serpent.'

She was talking to Kili when his hand brushed at her arse, and then he noticed Kili's eye. They had been here for a while, but Wren guessed Thorin was a wee bit distracted. Kili mumbled something about falling, and Wren made big eyes at him. Seriously, he could have come up with something better.

And then Christmas miracle! Fili's hands were buried in Bri's luscious curls and Wren guessed that snogging expertise was running in the family. They gave the lovebirds enough time, but the snogfest was stretching and Thorin cleared his throat loudly. They joined their small group, Kili was already dragged away to some colleagues of Fili's by the window, Bri was smiling shyly, Fili looking like he had just won a Lotto Max draw, and Wren actually thought he had. Bri was bonny, and smashing, and full package!

The next round of drinks followed, and then Thorin leaned in and whispered, "Page fifty two." And Wren did not need the book. She knew exactly which one it was. She did remember which page it was on. _may i feel said he _by e. e. cumming.

_(may i touch said he_

_how much said she_

_a lot said he)_

_why not said she_

_may i stay said he_

_(which way said she_

_like this said he_

_if you kiss said she_

_may i move said he_

_is it love said she)_

_if you're willing said he_

And oh how willing Wren was! She grabbed his hand and started dragging him to a bathroom. Wren couldn't say he was resisting.

* * *

Thorin locked the door behind them, and before Wren could act, and she was in that feisty mood of hers when he would need to spray her with cold water to limit her bossiness, he grabbed her around waist and quickly turned her back to him. She immediately arched and pressed her perky little bum into his already hard cock. He picked her up and deposited her on the loo on her knees. No objections followed, just a soft purr. Thorin smirked. Wren never was shy to express her preferences, he was glad they were on the same page.

He picked up the skirt of her mind blowing dress and saw that the knickers were faring a lace bow on her arse as well. He growled, bent down and gave the left buttock a sensitive bite. She yelped, and he immediately pressed his chest over her back and covered her mouth with his hand.

"Darling," it was rather difficult to speak, "You have to try to be quiet." She shook his hand off her mouth. Curls bounced around her head.

"And you have to try to be quick. There are fifty something guests there who might want to pee. Or shag for that matter." He chuckled, she was so bossy. He hadn't had her for two weeks, he wouldn't need much. At least the first time around. He quickly shook off his jacket and threw it on the counter, she was squirming out of her knickers, and he stepped closer and splayed his hands on her arse. God, her arse…

He knew they had to be quick, but he just needed a bit of her delicious little body. Her hands were splayed on the wall, and he spread his legs wide, feet on the sides of the loo. His cock pressed just on the perfect height, and he caught a burning ear between his lips. His hands slipped under the straps of her dress, and then covered the small tits. She moaned, and he shushed her again. She tilted her head and gave him the Stare. Wren had the Stare. He nipped a delicious earlobe and quickly opened his trousers.

And still a bit more of ogling his wife wouldn't harm. He looked down, at the smooth radiant skin of the bum and brushed his palm to it, and then gave himself a moment to appreciate the view of the knickers around her knees. She wiggled her bum in the air and hissed at him. She was right, they had been here for five minutes already.

He aligned them, and then suddenly she pushed her hand back and wiggled her fingers in the air.

"Give me your tie."

"What?"

"I need something to bite into." His cock was literally out, and she was all beautifully presented like a maroon on a cake stand, and who cared it was Hermes?! He pulled it off and pushed it into her hand. Suddenly he imagined little teeth marks on the silk, and he grabbed her hips and thrust into her. The tie was working. Usually that would cause a loud banshee wail, all he heard this time was a muffled moan.

She was holding on to the wall with one hand, another one going back, around his neck. He pressed his hand near hers on the wall, wrapping the second one around her waist. He moved into her in forceful sharp movements, her mad orange curls were bobbing, and she was pressing her head back into him. He caught a view of his Dark Blue Silk Twill between her white teeth, and he growled and his fingers dug into the skin of her hip. He momentarily felt guilty, she'd have bruises, but judging by her reciprocated push back into him she didn't mind. She suddenly let go off his neck and pulled the tie out of her mouth. He leaned in and caught her mouth in an askew kiss she was clearly inviting him into. Her deft little tongue licked the corner of his mouth, and that did it. He groaned and came. He couldn't stop moving though, it felt so brill, and he pushed into her again and again, which worked just ace for his little ginger, and once he felt the first clenching in her fanny in the upcoming orgasm, he had no choice but to push his fingers to her lips. She sank her teeth in them, and he heard quiet moans. It was painful, but he didn't give a bloody fuck. He might have gone blind there for a moment, and god, he missed her!

She was breathing loudly through her nose and finally unclenched her jaw. He felt so dazed that it took him a few second to realise there was blood. He moved away from her, she swayed, but battered his hand when he tried to help. She was right, they'd been there before. It seemed they were done, then one touch, and back to square one. They quickly straightened up their clothes, and he pushed the tie in his jacket pocket.

"That is my favourite tie now," he wanted to joke lightly, but noticed his voice was shaky. She smiled to him, slightly drowsy. Classic Wren, conking out after a shag. He smiled to her warmly.

"Let's add some more merit into it at home. These two weeks were a torture, I started having ideas. I'll let you go first and tie me to the bedposts," her tone was nonchalant, she was fixing her hair in the mirror, and he picked up his jaw from the floor and kissed her ear.

"You are a perfect wife, you do know that?"

"I am aware," she sounded haughty, but them broke and giggled.

* * *

When they come out of the bathroom, they found a small group of guests enthusiastically engaged in a game of twister in the middle of the room. Thorin gave Wren a questioning look and she nodded full-heartedly agreeing. The two of them were not advised any body contact until they had at least couple more bouts. Even more so, they simultaneously decided some distance needed to be put between them. Thorin left for the kitchen to get some water and chat with some of his distant cousins, and Wren sat on the sofa to enjoy the glorious awkwardness in the room in comfort. Fili glaring at Kili when he'd be too close to Reese, Reese bending in the most seductive ways, Bri trying to avoid Fili, but ogling him while he was happy as a lark, especially when her green would be close to his blue.

Wren took a sip of eggnog and smiled like a cat that got the cream. She properly loved her family Christmas parties!


	81. While We Are Young

**A/N: This one is a souvenir for my darling RagdollPrincess for finishing her multi-chapter _What the Future Brings._**

**Reese is her OC, and I admire and love this character, and how much work RP has put into her development. I highly recommend to check out her multi-chapter and also her short modern AU _On the Road Again, _which gives the essence of her character and tells a wonderful love story for her and Kili!**

**A/N#2: RP, congratulations, my friend! I love you!**

* * *

Reese's phone rings, and she puts the nail polish aside.

"Hi! I'm calling from _Universal Technologies_," the voice is female, young and has a distinct British accent. "Can I speak to Reese Jacobsen?"

"It's me."

"Hi!" The girl on the other end sounds way too happy, "So, we fixed your laptop, you can come pick him… bloody hell, it! You can pick _it_ up any time. We work till six."

"Sure, thanks!" Reese breathes out with relief. She's been computerless for three days, and it's a torture. She lives in a dorm, and they have a computer lab here, where anyone can use a comp, but they are old, and she tends to write papers and other stuff at night.

She is glaring at her toe nails for the next few minutes, willing them to dry faster, and then rushes out.

* * *

She dropped off her laptop in the repairs her friend suggested since they work fast and charged very little, mostly because they employ university students there. It's also close, so she just walks, May is already warm in Winnipeg, and soon she pushes the door of the repairs place. The bell above it rings, and a very dishevelled head appears above the counter. The guy is skinny and pale and opens his mouth to greet her, when a loud holler is heard from the back.

"Is that her?!" That's the same voice that was on the phone. "No one talks to her but me!"

A girl appears from the back, and Reese feels her jaw drop. She is a strange creature, skinny beyond measure, as short as Reese, giant hipster glasses, red lipstick, a nose ring, a plaid shirt and there is rolled up bandana around her head that somehow manages to restrain a crazy mop of orange curls.

"Hi!" She has a very wide mouth, and it's stretched in a grin from ear to ear. "Here is your baby!" She lifts her hands with Reese's Toshiba in them. "All healthy and cheery, and tip top!" The girl talks with twice the speed of a normal human being, and the accent is very thick. Reese understands about a third of what the redhead machine guns at her, pointing at some icons on Reese's screen and gesturing widely with her small hands. After a while the girl freezes and smiling wider suddenly asks, "You didn't suss a single word I said, did you?" Reese shakes her head. The girl giggles. "So I reckoned. Anyroad, your laptop is ace now, it would live for another year, but I suggest you invest in a better one." She suddenly throws a glare at the skinny pale person behind the counter. "Dave, take five." The guy scampers, Reese is watching his hasty retreat. It's quite obvious who's got balls here. The redhead places her elbows on the counter and gives Reese a quite different look. If she didn't know better, Reese'd assume that's adoration.

"So, I was the one fixing your computer. And you can tell me to sod off right now, and I'll make myself scarce, but… You are NotAllUnicornsAndRainbows! You are her! Fanfiction ID 63388893! In the name of Rassilon, you are her! I read all your fics! I am avidreader23!"

"Oh!" Reese is staring at the person she now knows is one of her constant reviewers. She has imagined a calm middle-aged woman from Britain, and not a caffeinated squirrel. Again, one never knows with online relationships. The reviews were always thought through, showed high intellect and Reese assumed avidreader23 is a school teacher or a psychologist. Not a skinny girl with shaved temples and a tattoo peeking from under the collar of a vintage tee with Ziggy Stardust. "That's cool..."

"OK, so should I sod off or give you a ticket to our departmental knees-up? Party, I mean party. Computer Science Department party. It's my second semester in Canada, I keep on forgetting the proper words. I promise to fuck off as soon as you are tired of me." The girl is intense, talks fast, but somehow Reese is OK with it. Maybe because she just wants some distraction from the family drama she has just endured, maybe because she suddenly knows the girl will back off if asked. After all, she seems very considerate in her reviews.

"I'll come to the party." A small ticket lies into her hand, the redhead is grinning happily.

"It'll be mental there! The department is a zoo, and not in a good way. You will probably run after half an hour, but you'll get plenty of material for your fics."

* * *

Reese meets up with Wren, that's the name of the redhead, at the entrance of the hall where the party is held, they give tickets to the security by the door. He is vaguely familiar, most of them are the same at all university parties, and Reese attends a lot of them.

They enter and Reese snorts with laughter. It is just as she expected. Half of people are occupying the same old leather couches they move from party to party, someone is already drunk and dancing in the middle of the floor, and most have already separated into small groups. The only difference from hundreds of other parties she's attended is that the music is strange, sounds like clanking of some cutlery, and it basically only has bass, and also there are a few very, very freakily dressed people. There is a guy in a tuxedo, and another one in a costume of a Roman gladiator.

"Alright, quick tour. The weirdos on the sofas, with barmy costumes, that's programmers. All they can bloody think about is coding. And D&amp;D. And they might have a heart attack if you talk to them. You with your perky tits and arse..." Wren gestures all over Reese and continues her word avalanche, "On the other hand, if you are in the mood for preying on the weak today, that's your hunting ground. My mate Thea prefers them, though they cry after the first shag," Wren wrinkles her nose, and Reese stares at her. "You might also have an aggro with them after the bonk, they get clingy. But they are grateful, and again, if you are into gifting a poor sod with the piece of heaven..." Wren is moving into the hall, Reese is plodding after her. Wren seems to know everybody, introductions rain on Reese, and they are by the drinks table. A guy behind it gives them the first ones for free, 'for my island princess,' Reese cringes from the horrible pun, and yes, Britain is an island, but Wren smiles to the guy and then shoves her beer into Reese's second hand.

"I'm intolerant, but the brew shouldn't go to waste. Even if it tastes like donkey's pish. So yes, that group there, with a few chicks mixed in, those would be in Security. Network Security that is. Rad peeps, I'm mates with many, that's your middle ground. Most will work for big companies, like Shell, and for provincial government, so yes, they are slightly awkward as well, but there is hope for them." Wren picks up a glass of water and takes a sip. "There, a few chicks by the window, they are in Human/Computer Interaction, which means they are shite with computers and will be writing manuals when they graduate. They probably have some Minor though that will allow them to find a proper job and forget this hell on Earth. And there, closer to the DJ, that's web designers. The best of the two worlds. Creative, some do Minor in Arts, can actually talk to a person with a fanny. Anything to your liking?" Reese shortly wonders which category her new friend belongs to, but it's none of her business, and again she is already distracted.

On the couch nearest to the window, a few guys are laughing, and one of them, hipster glasses and a man bun, has the most beautiful eyes she's ever seen. They are dark and bright, and, let's face it, the fact that the legs he stretched in front of him seem to go on forever doesn't harm. He also has wide shoulders and nice posture, which is rare for those slouching in front of a screen all the time. Reese knows something about muscle atrophy, she is in Kinesiology.

"That's Killian Durinson, nothing stable for the last two years, light, friendly, decent bloke, I'd just go and say hello." Reese sharply turns and looks at Wren who is smiling to her over the glass. "And he likes brunettes. OK, I'm off in search of crisps. Bugger! Chips! It's called chips here." Wren disappears as if she was never here.

* * *

Reese and Killian have spent the last hour on the roof of the university center, drinking cheap beer and talking. Wren was right, he is light, and decent, and makes her laugh, and his knee has been touching hers more and more often recently.

He has gorgeous lips, a nice masculine line, plump, and there is a short black beard. He told her it's a family thing from his mother's side. She laughs and asks if he is certain that he isn't just a victim of hipster fashion.

Altogether he is gorgeous, hot, smart, and Reese feels like running. She could obviously sleep with him, but then again that might become something more that just a casual quickie in her dorm room and that's the last thing she needs these days.

And now she needs to pee. She excuses herself, he smiles and says 'I'll be here,' and she returns inside. In the washroom she splashes cold water on her face and decides that his biceps and narrows waist, and, damn it, his glorious butt are not worth it. She is heading for the exit when Wren's sarcastic voice from behind makes her jump up.

"Oh so you are the avoidant type?" The redhead is sitting on a couch in the lounge, her feet tucked under her, her cell phone in her hands. "I should have reckoned. Your OC is jolly too hard and straightforward for you to not compensate for your own personal qualities." Reese feels like that is the moment to tell the redhead to 'sod off' as the latter so eloquently mentioned before, but then she meets Wren's warm understanding eyes. "He is ace, isn't he? And I saw you two leaving to the roof, he looks smitten." Reese gives Wren a glare.

"Why don't you take him yourself? You seem to like him a lot." Wren softly laughs to that and scratches the tip of her nose with the cell phone.

"He is not my type."

"Oh really? What's there not to like?" Reese is snarling back, but the redhead seems unaffected.

"He is real. I am saving myself for Blackwall, the Grey Warden. All those muscles, and dark hair, and the thick black beard… Oh yum." Reese is looking at her like she is crazy. She is probably slightly loopy. Wren laughs, "I'm taking a piss, love. It's a character in a video game. Dragon Age: Inquisition." Wren shows Reese the screen of her phone, there is a picture of some guy there, it is indeed a video game screenshot. The man is drawn giant, massive arms, arrogant irked face, heavy eyebrows. He is pictured with a noose around his neck. Reese can write five fics from just this visual. Rain pouring over him adds a lot. Wren gives out a fake theatrical sigh and giggles. "So, you see, blokes interest me not. But your fanny wants some of that sugar on the roof. And if you run, you'll regret it."

"I don't think it's any of your business, Wren."

"Of course not, but according to the requirements of the genre I'm the snarky mate to your OC tonight, Reese, so get your perky fit arse back to that roof, and explore your options." There is a strange authoritativeness in the redhead's tone, and Reese finds herself marching up the fire staircase again.

* * *

Killian is leaning over the railing, smoking. Reese is in health research and should mind, but it looks so sexy! He has beautiful hands, strong fingers, nice wrists, and he throws the cigarette aside when he sees her.

"I honestly thought you bailed," he is smiling, white teeth gleam, and she steps to him planning to kiss the hell out of him. It probably shows on her face, and he rushes to meet her halfway.

His right foot slips on the gravel of the roof, he tumbles down and groans. Reese is quickly near him, he is cradling his left arm.

"Fuck it, not the wrist!" He is growling, she understands, it's his working tool. She quickly runs her fingers on his wrist, it seems fine, but she suspects he has broken his arm.

She helps him get up, and they go downstairs. Reese is trying to reach the cab service, but they don't pick up, it's three o'clock at night on a Friday. Wren is still sitting on her couch, playing on her phone, and Reese is ready to kiss her. The redhead has a car.

* * *

Reese is not sure how they survive the drive, Wren manages to forget she is not home couple times and drive on the opposite lane, but they are finally in the hospital. Thankfully they don't have to sit in the emergency room for six hours, since Killian has an uncle who is doing residency there. He is Killian's mum's younger brother and is only a few years older than them.

They are sitting on the uncomfortable bench in the waiting room, Wren has delicately removed herself from the stage and is studying chocolate bars in a vending machine.

"Sorry about that," Killian looks slightly embarrassed.

"Don't be ridiculous, it wasn't your fault." Reese is uncomfortable. She wonders if she can leave him here, she is not his family or anything, and when that Uncle of his appears, they'll be introduced, and Reese doesn't do families. She doesn't do taking care of a hurt guy whom she was sort of going to kiss as well.

"Reese..." Killian's voice is soft, and she is staring at the wall behind him. "I think you shoulds stop freaking out and just go with it."

"I'm not freaking out!"

"We are sitting on the same bench, and it's shaking." She wants to tell him to fuck off, but he quickly leans in and catches her mouth. His lips are firm and confident, he is gentle though, and very, very sexy. She's had plenty of that, but he might be the best. At least when it comes to first clumsy kisses, when they are in a hospital emergency room and he can only use one hand. He cups her jaw, he has warm hands, and she opens her mouth.

"I'm glad to see your injury has not affected your sense of propriety," sarcastic low voice above them makes them jump away from each other. That must be the British Uncle, according to Killian he has grown up 'at the North,' whatever it means, and moved to Canada five years ago.

Reese lifts her eyes at him and feels her jaw drop on the floor. He is hot, no argument from her, but that's not what makes her gape at him like an idiot. He looks exactly like the picture in Wren's phone.

There is loud thud behind them, and all three of them, as well as all emergency room turn to see Wren impersonating an ice statue by the vending machine. The long fingers of her small hands are splayed in the air, she has just dropped everything she was holding in them. Two bags of chips are at her feet and a can of Mountain Dew that was the source of the thud is slowly and sadly rolling through the room and under the feet of the resident Uncle. He stops it with his sneaker and lifts one eyebrow.

* * *

They are putting a cast on Killian's arm, and he is whining like all men do when there is just a little something wrong with them.

"How will I type now? I have an assignment for next week. And a shower? How will I take a shower?" The nurse gives him a glare, and he shifts his puppy eyes at Reese. She assumes all these theatrics are for her. "I can't even take off my T-shirt like this. I will need help." Reese rolls her eyes and escapes the room.

She is obviously coming back to his place with him, he is renting it with his brother who is in Finances and 'has his own room, with great noise isolation,' as Killian has gleefully informed Reese before she gave him a nice smack at the back of his head. The nurse surely didn't need to know it. Reese smirks, taking off that T-shirt is becoming a more and more attractive perspective, he obviously works out, and she turns around the corner, only to freeze in her tracks.

The resident Uncle is standing by the wall, pressing a hand of one straight arm into it, while his second palm is cupping Wren's butt. Her legs are around his waist, arms wrapped around his neck, and one could think he is examining her tonsils he is that thorough.

Reese quickly turns around and rushes back to Killian.


	82. Wren Des Barres

**A/N: So what happened was... The amazing ****RagdollPrincess**** had an 'uhem' dream involving Dean O'Gorman, and a discussion ensued on how one would behave given a chance to have sex with a celebrity. Would one be OK if it were horrible, just to tick a box, so to say? Or would one meticulously give points for performance to later share the evaluation with friends? :)**

**And then I was cooking pasta, and it always inspires me (remember _Stop, _**_**Hammer Time**_**? :D), so this happened... ;)**

* * *

"Wrennie, we are going to a concert!" Thea saunters into Wren's shop shaking two tickets in front of her in a flamboyant gesture, like a fan of a lady-in-waiting for Madame de Pompadour.

"Exciting," Wren smiles to her widely, carefully placing an orchid in the vase. She is pondering between aspidistra and aralia leaves, and asks absentmindedly, "Whom are we listening to?"

"Paladins of Erebor!" Thea announces as if it is the best of news, and Wren lifts her brows. That sounds rather outside of her comfort zone. Although that is the charm of friendship with Thea, it's like letting a tropical storm give directions to your Prius.

"And that would be…?" Wren inquires carefully.

"It's some sort of Norse Metal, lots of growling, men with eyeliner, and growling..." Thea's voice is dreamy, "Oh the majestic growling! Deep in the chests..." Thea impersonates something that sounds like a very big vacuum cleaner to Wren's ears. "They are going to be yelling on the stage, sweaty and angry. There might be splashing some sheep blood over the stage and biting off bat's heads there too." Wren assumes she looks slightly nauseated because Thea rushes to reassure her, "I'm taking a piss, love. No blood and bats. But a lot of yelling, and large men in black leather." Thea seems very pleased with herself.

"And we are going there why?" Wren asks in a squeaky voice.

"Because I need to bang the drummer." That's Thea in a nutshell for you.

* * *

On the way to the concert Wren asks Thea what exactly Erebor is and receives an answer that it is "some sort of mythological shite, they are all into that Norse tosh." Thea isn't a fan, that much is obvious by then, but apparently she happened to see their other concert, "with that prick from Manchester, you know." Wren doesn't remember the prick from Manchester, but she nods. And googles the band. And starts worrying. What did she get herself into?

At the beginning it seemed like a lot of fun, almost like a fancy party for Halloween. Thea stuffed Wren into a leather mini they borrowed from Thea's cousin, who is in middle school by the way. Wren is aware she has little to offer in the bum and tits areas. They got her a black tee with a large sequin skull, from the same cousin, and Thea assaulted Wren with the content of her make-up bag. In Wren's modest opinion she looks like a racoon. A vampire racoon, because besides the black eyeliner and smokey grey eye shadows she is also now faring red lipstick.

Google deftly offers Wren lyrics, and she is even slightly pleased with them. At least they make sense to her. The band's hit number one, "Misty Mountains" sounds even romantic. That is before she youtubes them, and gets the taste of what she will be subjected to in half an hour. By the time they get in, squished between other fans clad in leather, all black, members of all genders all looking like the aforementioned vampire racoons, Wren is mildly terrified.

The concert starts, and Thea was right, there is a lot of yelling. And growling. And indeed very large men in leather. Wren points at the drummer with her eyes and questioningly lifts her eyebrows. He is massive, his head is shaved and tattooed, arms like logs, mutton chops moustache. Wren is silently asking Thea whether the latter is sure, and Thea theatrically licks her lips covered in dark purple lipstick. Wren shrugs. She has had so little experience with men, she hardly can claim to have any taste in them, but definitely… no. The band members all have some barmy Norse names, Dwalin, the drummer Thea is currently ogling like a red velvet cupcake, is roaring and his hands with sticks are a blur. If asked and given no choice but to pick one, Wren would go for Philip "Slaughter" Durinson, the bass player, and the nephew of the band's front man, John "King" Thorington, also known as Thorin, which is loosely translated from the Norse as Darer. Wren didn't try to memorise the information from their Wiki, but her photographic memory didn't leave her any choice.

Altogether Wren's only aggro is a constant concern whether she will be left slightly deaf from all these decibels. She has no ear for music so she doesn't need any soft and catchy melody, and even she understands they are not that bad. And again, the lyrics are rather good. Something about 'hollow halls beneath the fells' and 'dungeons deep and caverns dim.' And also she is still slightly worried that there might be some sheep blood.

* * *

The concert is over, the front man is yelling some goodbyes into the mic, the audience is yelling demanding more songs, and Wren joins everyone's enthusiasm just for the kicks. Thea grabs her hand and starts pulling her to the stage. They have agreed in the cab that if Thea gets a pull, meaning if she is invited backstage, Wren will leave and catch herself a cab. Wren is almost certain that that's how the evening will proceed, Thea is wearing her little black dress. It is very little. Also, Thea has glorious tits. To be honest, Thea has glorious everything. The drummer stands no chance.

There is a crowd of girls yelling and waving their arms near the stage, and Wren understands they are Thea's competition. Killian "Demonoid" Durinson, that has just finished his crowd surfing and yelling cheerful obscenities into the sky, comes up to the edge of the stage, his radiant white toothed grin beaming in the short black beard, and his eyes are scanning the pool. Wren is standing behind Thea, who is holding her hand firmly, not allowing other girls push Wren. Demonoid's eyes fall on Thea, and he bends down and stretches his hand to her. She yells something to him, probably signalling her gratitude, and quickly turns to Wren who is preparing to wave to her goodbye and wish her luck, when suddenly from the corner of her eye she catches the front man of the band move on the stage. The girls around her start squealing shriekingly, and then he shouts something in Killian's ear and point at her with his long index finger.

Wren is immediately concerned for her eyes and hair considering the death glares the girls around her fix on her. She gives Thea a panicked questioning look, and Thea yells "Common! Yes or no?" And throwing any sound judgement aside, Wren nods.

Thea steps to the stage, and letting go of Wren's hand she stretches her arms up. Demonoid Durinson picks her up under them and pulls her on the stage. At that moment Phillip Durinson steps to the edge, and some other girl rushes ahead, probably to at least touch the ends of her idol's long hair, and Wren has been admiring the mane for a while, the waves are silky and thick, like liquid sunshine, and he bends down completely ignoring her and stretches both hands to Wren. She grabs them, and he pulls her on the stage. She is slammed into his chest and lifts her eyes at him. He smiles to her widely and then pushes her towards the stairs going backstage. What did she get herself into?

* * *

There are sitting on leather sofas in a dim room, music of the same sort that was just on the stage is blaring from speakers, and Thea is drawing some squiggles on the upper arm of the drummer. All band members are covered in tattoos, and Wren skews her eyes at the neck of the man sitting near her. John "King" Thorington has black flames licking the tendons on his strong neck, disappearing somewhere under the collar of his black tee. Tattoos go down both his arms, all black and crisp, he is sipping Jameson from a tumbler and is openly studying her.

He has remarkable eyes, bright blue, and even without the eyeliner, that somehow suits him, they would still be framed by black, from thick fluffy lashes that are plain amazing. The hair is long of course, down to the shoulder blades, thick dark waves, and there are silver strands above his forehead although it's probably too early for him to go grey. Maybe he bleaches them. There are also braids in his mane, and Wren is endlessly uncomfortable. Her back is unnecessary straight, and she is squeezing her knees. He of course spread his, and the bloody leather mini crawled up, and Wren is really trying not to touch her naked knee to his leather pants.

"What do you do?" He is now looking at her neck and shoulders, it feels like some warm liquid is being poured on her skin, and she swallows with difficulty.

"I am a florist." She looks at him askew, and the corners of his lips twitch. And then one of his thick black eyebrows slowly crawls up, in a whimsical angle, and she suddenly feels very hot. These are those very bedroom eyes they mention in films. "I mostly make wedding bouquets." Wren rambles when she is nervous. And she is very, very nervous.

He leans closer, turning the side of his head to her, signalling her he can't hear her properly. Of course he can't. The music is blaring, there are about thirty people in the room, everyone is getting increasingly more pissed. Thea is dancing in the middle of the room, and Wren shortly envies her friend's lack of stage fright. Thea doesn't mind being in the center of attention. To be honest, Thea enjoys it a lot. Currently both of the King's nephews are dancing with her, and she grabs the braid at the side of the younger, dark-haired one's face and twirls it around her finger. The man sitting on the same sofa as Wren is smirking. Other girls that were gifted with the pass here are scattered around the room. Some are chatting with the band members and the crew, some are dancing, everyone is sipping drinks, and Wren feels completely out of place. She is intolerant to alcohol, and the familiar feeling creeps in her mind. Like the room starts spinning while she is static, and soon they all will propel somewhere to the stars in space, and she will be left behind. She turns to the man near her and prepares to yell some polite excuses, given she knows it really doesn't matter because he can't hear her well, and then he suddenly jumps on his feet and yells.

"We are done here! To Hilton!" His booming low voice has a magical effect on the room. Everyone as if freezes for a mo, and then the music is turned off, the bottles and other scattered belongings are being picked up, and people are hastily getting ready to leave. Wren feels like she is in the center of a tornado, she blinks frantically trying to understand what is happening, and to find Thea in the crowd, when suddenly a heavy long arm goes around her shoulders and she is being led out. She is mumbling something, and then she finds herself deposited at the back seat of a limo. She is squeezed between the King and his Demonoid nephew who has some curvy blonde on his lap and judging by where his hands are they are not going to be playing scrabble once everyone arrives to the hotel. She turns and looks at the King, he is watching the lights of the night city rushing by the window. His older nephew is sitting in front of her talking on the phone, and two chicks near him are whispering and sniggering. Wren thinks she is going to leave once they arrive to the hotel.

The limo stops and the nephews fall out of it, two girls hanging on the blonde one, there is an obvious threesome coming up here, and Wren is shortly glad she is not coming there with him. But what is one to expect from the rocker type, right? Wren starts clumsily crawl out, she is short, and the limo is a Hammer. She is also painfully aware that she is flashing everyone with her knickers in that ridiculous skirt, when suddenly the King moves into her, cups the back of her head and pulls her to his lips.

The kiss is mind-blowing, he really knows what he is doing. She starts shaking in about three seconds, he is controlling, and his second hand lies on her chin. He tilts her head where he wants her. His tongue is quickly in her mouth, he thoroughly explores her lips, teeth, and palate, and she realises she is moaning. Her hands are clenched in fists and suspended in the air in a ridiculous panicked gesture.

"If you are going in with us now, we are shagging," he announces nonchalantly, her chin is still locked between his thumb and index finger, and his other hand is tangled in her hair at the back of her head. His pupils are dilated, and she looks at his lips. The line is surprisingly soft, and she really likes the contrast with the black beard. She nods, and he lets her go, she feels like she might collapse without the support of his hand. He climbs out of the car on the other side, he is so massive it's like getting out of a Beetle for him, and she is still sitting inside panting.

"Wren?" He is already on her side, he is leaning into the open door, and she didn't know he knew her name. She puts her hand in his, and he pulls her out.

* * *

They have the whole floor in the hotel, and the large parlour between the bedrooms immediately turns into a wild do. He leads her in by the hand, plops on a sofa in a dim corner, and pulls her on his lap, and she suppresses a squeak. He is scorching, she initially assumed it's the adrenaline and all the jumping and yelling he did during the concert, but apparently that's his normal temperature. Room service is ordered, more booze is circulating the room, and he wrapped one arm around her. She is tense, and he pulls her to him and suddenly nuzzles her neck.

"You are so strung I can put you on my guitar," he has a very sexy voice, and then his lips graze her earlobe. "Blimey, just look at that little ear. All burning…" He is murmuring, his breath brushes her helix, and then he catched it between his lips. She shudders and then looks at him askew. "You should have a drink, relax a bit..."

"I can't drink, I'm a ginger," she croaks, the fingers of his other hand gently stroking her side are distracting. He has very beautiful hands, long strong fingers, very masculine wrists, and she is trying to breathe quieter. She feels like everyone can hear her panting.

"Oh? So it's the real colour?" He pushes his hand in her curls and sort of scratches the back of her head like she is a cat, "Ace." She can't stand it anymore. She starts sliding off his lap, mumbling something about a washroom, the stupid skirt screeches on his trousers, and then she flees.

She is splashing cold water on her face, forgetting that she is for once wearing makeup, she has to deal with smears and streaks of black now, and it distracts her a bit from the panic. She has never done it, and although she knows she is more or less safe, Thea is here and she let couple of her friends know where she is, and again it's a common practice, she is bricking it. And then she understands she is going to go through with it. And then she jerks her chin up. It's not like she is in relationships with the bloke, and he does it all the time, so she is just going to enjoy it. And if he is not good she can always get up and leave. It's not like she is married to him and has to spare his ego.

She returns to the room, and he looks at her over the rim of his glass. His eyebrows twitch in surprise, he probably thought she bolted. She decisively marches to him and climbs on his lap. Both arms go around her this time, he is indeed massive, and she presses her lips to his. She might not be the most experienced out of them, but again, she doesn't owe him anything.

He gets up as if she is not hanging on him for dear life and starts walking towards one of the rooms. She has to say the kick opening the door really works on her fanny. The nonchalant kick closing it makes it even better.

* * *

He throws her on the bed, she quickly turns around and studies the bed. He standing in front of the bed, and she hears a low rumbly chuckle.

"That's our first night here. The sheets are clean."

"Are you?" She sounds bolder than she feels.

"Yeah." He is so bloody chill! He toes off his boots, the large silver buckle on his leather trousers clanks, and she quickly scoots back on the bed. He pulls the belt out and throws in to the corner of the room. She was terrified for a second, and he noticed. "I am not into that kind of stuff. Unless you ask really nicely." There is laughter rolling in his voice, and she inhales. She might be jittery but she came here herself. And then he pulls off his tee. She forgets about her nerves. The chest is glorious. The tattoo covers all of it, the left shoulder, and even top of his stomach. He is also covered in thick black hair, chest and a stripe going down the stomach and disappearing somewhere in the now open leather trousers.

"We need a durex," she squeaks, and he smirks. She knows she still sounds bossy, even though her eyes are probably twice the normal size. She reminds herself she doesn't owe him anything, it will only happen on her conditions. He suddenly turns around and walks back to the door. She jerks on the bed, did he change his mind? She won't do it without condoms of course, but she understands she is disappointed. Terrified or not, she really wanted him.

He sticks his head through the door and roars into the parlour, "I need johnny." There is loud cheering in the room, and Wren feels her cheeks starting to burn. Someone probably throws him a box, he catches it with one hand and then comes back slamming the door behind him. His nonchalance is killing her.

He walks to the bed and presses one knee in it. He throws the box on the bed near her and then stretches his hand to her, "Come here." His tone is soft, and she rises on her knees and crawls up to him. He cups her face and snogs any sense out of her. He is towering over her, she needs to drop her head back, and she tentatively runs her hands on his sides. He is hot, and wide, and then he jerks.

"I'm ticklish, love," his eyes are smiling, "So either grab, or keep your hands to yourself." She gives him a defiant glare and rakes her nails on his back. One eyebrow jumps up, and he lunges at her. She is suddenly pressed in the sheets, and a sharp exhale is smacked out of her. He is very heavy.

He is sliding down her body, his hands are on her ribs, then he pushes her tee up and presses his mouth to her stomach. She gasps, he draws a swirl on it with his tongue, and then she hears an already familiar chuckle. She feel painful blush spill on the cheeks again, she is wearing a sports bra. She clenches her jaws and meets his eyes. He picked her from the crowd, she doesn't owe him anything, she repeats the mantra in her head. He slightly shakes his head and pushes his fingers under the elastic of the bra and covers her tits. He presses the nipples between the index and middle fingers, not too hard, and she closes her eyes. It feels brill. He rolls then between the fingers, and then the thumbs join in, brushing the undersides of her unimpressive breasts.

"I like your tits, they are sweet..." He is murmuring into her stomach, and then one hand escapes her bra, and he pushes it under her arse. The fingers find the zipper, there is a little whiz, and he is pulling the skirt off her. And then she remembers the knickers.

She jerks, momentarily distracted from the magic of his hot palms on her oversensitive skin, she is tingling head to toe. He is laughing openly now. The knickers are cotton, bikini, peach coloured, in polka dots. She really didn't expect anyone to see them. Her snarkiness, which has been asleep since he pointed at her from the stage, is suddenly awake.

"These are my favourite, so… belt it..." Her line is lacking in confidence, but he stops laughing and licks his lips instead. That doesn't make her feel any more at ease. Neither does him pulling the second hand from under her bra and hooking his fingers on the edge of her smalls.

"Bum up!" He commands, and her hips jump up on the bed. The knickers fly following his belt. She frantically tries to remember how her nether regions haircut doing when he covers her with his mouth. She makes an odd noise she herself wouldn't be able to describe. Something between a death cry of a chicken, and a happy piglet squeal. He sticks his tongue inside her and swirls it. He is going so fast that she has stopped understanding anything, and might have gone blind. The thumbs of his large hands are stroking her inner thighs, and she realises he opened her legs, half bent in the knees, and is stoking them. And of course then he places them on his shoulders, she feels his smooth back under her calves. She is so at sixes and sevens that she doesn't even understand if she is enjoying it, or is mildly terrified of it. He seems to notice.

"Not good?" He purrs, completely not thrown off by it, while he is placing a row of kisses on her stomach. She is completely not sure where the next line comes from.

"I am just memorising all details for when I retell this to all my friends." He lifts his face and starts guffawing. It's loud and merry, completely unrestricted, he has perfect white teeth, and she is watching the crow's feet in the corners of his squinted eyes.

"Blimey, you are a treat. I was right to pick you," he shakes his head a bit and then kisses her knee. "What do you want now, love?" Sounds like he is asking her what she wants with her cuppa. She is not sure what the options are. Except she really wants to see where this line of black hair on his stomach goes to. She just doesn't know how to ask. She carefully pulls her legs from out of his palms and sits up on the bed, and after a moment of consideration she pulls off her bra. It was bunched up under her arms, and was probably squishing her small tits even more. They already have a complex, no need to humiliate the poor tidbits anymore. He is smirking, that's a feral grin if she has ever seen one. She actually hasn't but she is certain that's what they look like. One corner of the lips is lifted, the eyes are fixed on her, and there is a herd of goosebumps galloping down her spine.

She decides actions speak better than words, he is lying on the bed on his stomach, his lower half is hanging off the edge, and she moves back on the bed beckoning him with one finger. She is not playing coy, her throat is choked, and nothing but a pathetic croak would come out, were she to try to speak. He moves quickly like a large animal, it is not so mildly terrifying, and he is kneeling in front of her. She pushes her hand down the trousers, in for an inch as they say, there are no pants, but she honestly didn't expect any, and that is when she decides she has been very, very stupid. The cocks she had the privilege of seeing and especially holding in her hand before were… well, inadequate, in comparison with what she is encircling in her fingers down his leather kecks. She reminds herself she doesn't owe him anything and strokes, enjoying the hot silky skin and the size. Once it's in any proximity of her fanny, it will become a real issue, at the moment it's a blessing. He grabs the back of her head and pulls her into a kiss. And then he cups betwen her legs and starts stroking her fanny, the tips of his fingers moving like on the strings of a guitar. It is utterly distracting, but she is still holding on for now. She grabs the waist of his trousers and pushes them down, helping the cock with her second hand to slip out unscarthed, no need for violence. They stay like that for a few seconds, it's probably uncomfortable for him, he is so much taller, and predictably he pulls his hand back, splays it on her back and topples her on the bed.

His hands and lips wander on her body, there are licks and bites, some are not too gentle, but everything seems ace to her. At some point he pushes his long index finger in her fanny and swirls it there, rubbing the walls, quite obviously testing the waters. If he wanted to know if she is randy, she is. She suspects her moist might be dripping down his wrist. And then he grabs her hips and flips her on her stomach. There is some movement behind her, she is completely bladdered, she guesses he is pulling on the durex, and then he lies on her, elbows on the sides of her head. She pushes her hand back and grabs his cock. Caution is advised at all times. She feels the ridge of the condom under her palm, and she gently strokes. He chuckles again, she would give him another glare but he is already grabbing her hips aligning them and pushes in.

She was right, he is way too big! She whines, and he is slowly rolling his hips into her. And then he starts getting up, pulling her after him, and now she is on all four. He puts his knees widely on the bed and then presses her hips together with his hot palms, making her lock around him.

He is shagging her for a while, her curls are sweeping the sheets in front of her, and she is trying to keep her voice down, she actually never can, she is a screamer and could never do anything about it, and he is so long, thick and hot, that after a while she just gives up and her hollering is probably heard somewhere where all locals are penguins. She thinks she might be close, and then he comes with a growl. They fall on the sheets, and they are both panting, her breath comes out in some daft mewls. Neither of her ex's could make her sound like that. And she didn't even come!

He pulls out, rolls off the bed, and stumbling disappears in the ensuite bathroom. She hasn't yet gathered her wits and started panicking regarding what she is supposed to do now when he shows up, starkers, with a body like his she'd be that confident too, and he starts pulling at the duvet that in hotels they for no particular reason always tuck in the sides of the bed so that if you don't want to impersonate a letter in a tight envelope you don't want to crawl under it. He manages to lift one side, and grins to her. She is trying to look above the waist.

"Common, climb in." She obediently does, he liberates the other side of the duvet and slides under it as well. She doesn't know what to say but thankfully he pulls her to his lips again. After a few minutes she is all heated up again, her hands are roaming his chest, the body is wide and heavy, but he is all muscles, and she starts to think that this is her taste in men now, and he is pulling another durex from the box. And then she decides "what the hell."

"I want to come this time," she mumbles while he is sucking at her neck, there will be a bruise there.

"That would be fair," he is chuckling into her skin, and she pushes away from him and stares in his eyes. She reminds herself that she doesn't need to understand him, just have fun, and she chews on her bottom lip.

"I rarely can, I mean from oral sex sometimes, but I can't relax properly… And if I'm on top, but again..."

"You can't relax properly," he finishes for her, and she narrows her eyes at him. If he gibes now, she swears, she'll climb out of this bed and… She doesn't get to finish this thought in her head because he suddenly dives under the duvet, he is moving under it like a giant mole, and then she feels lips and beard on her lower stomach. He laughs there again.

"I can't see anything, might miss the target, but at least you can make faces all you want," he is snorting, and it tickles.

"Do chivvy on, would you?" She is her usual lippy self now and sounds just as sarcastic as she planned to. It is indeed easier when he doesn't see her, or to be precise when she doesn't see him, he is so fit she starts stuttering just looking at him, and then he gives a long lick across her folds. She moans and closes her eyes. He is thorough and very, very skilled, the pulps of his fingers are dancing on her hips and inner thighs, and soon enough she is wailing, he slips a finger into her, he has already found that very spot while they were copping off, and she comes like never before. Bright purple dots are dancing in front of her eyes, and she is mewling. He is making some strange movements there, and she realises he is wiping his beard on the sheets.

He shows up from under the duvet, his waves are sticking out in ridiculous angles, and she is too floppy to worry about anything. She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him down to her lips. She even doesn't mind that she can taste what he was doing a moment ago. That seems to spur him, and he rolls on his back, pulling her on top of him. She is in anticipation too, she finds the durex box, crawls down his body towards the area of interest, and here it is in front of her nose. She is holding a condom in her hand, but changes her mind and throws it aside.

She has never been good at this. It seemed mildly disgusting and hard work. He is much thicker than her last boyfriend, and very much longer, but she is suddenly enjoying it and lets him slide all the way down her throat. It constricts, he is huge, and he groans loudly. She is breathing through her nose and hastily remembers the articles from Cosmo. Hopefully there is some truth in them. Not much, as it turns out, but she is finding her footing, his breathing and raspy groans are navigating her, and then he pushes his fingers in her hair and slightly tilts her head, changing the trajectory. She has already noticed the curve of the cock, and with his gentle guidance she achieves impressive results. He pushes her off him just before the end, and it happened so quickly that she is disoriented, and also she apparently gets very randy from giving head, and she thinks she might actually come from it. She is splayed on the bed, he is kneeling over her, she is between his legs, and she grabs the base and starts moving her hand, hoping she is doing it right. Apparently she does, becasue he grunts and comes all over her chest. He drops his head back, his hips jerk several more times, she is still holding him tight in her hand, and it's hot and twitches in her palm, and then he starts falling back, and she lets him go.

There is a pause, and then once again he rolls off the bed and disappears in the bathroom. She once again doesn't have time to gather her wits, this time maybe to get irritated that he left her in such state, when he shows up with a towel that he apparently soaked in water and gently wipes her. He then throws the towel somewhere over his shoulder and starts kissing her, his hands wandering all over her. He is less intense and more playful now, and she climbs on his lap.

He gets up and carries her to the bathroom. He is supporting her under her bum, snogging her so that her toes curl, while he is blindly battering the tabs trying to make water run into the bath. She wholeheartedly approves of his initiative.

And then she realises his cock is rather insistently poking into her. She tears her lips off his and stares at him.

"Is it ever enough for you?" He smirks and kisses the corner of her lips.

"It's more fun with you. I'm usually done after two." She is studying his face. She really likes the long straight nose and the whiskers above the tender upper lip, and then she shushes the sappy part of her brain. That's not what it's all about. She looks at the bath and then gives him a mischievous side glance.

"You still have a few minutes before the bath is ready." He barks a short guffaw, walks back to the bedroom, he bends, she picks up a durex, and then he starts walking back in the bathroom.

"What?.."

"There was a nice mirror there," he is completely nonchalant as usual, and she tenses in his arms. The last thing she wants is to see her skinny self at the moment and be reminded of her inadequacies. And the freckles on her shoulders. She was daft enough to forget sunscreen last week when they went to a park with Thea, the orange pests are all over her shoulders.

She realises he is attentively watching her, and she pouts. Why does it seem like he knows how insecure she is?

"You are ridiculous," he mutters, they are in the bathroom, he once again kicks the door shut, she wonders if he knows what door handles are for, and then he puts her down on the floor and twirls her pressing her back to his stomach. She realises they are standing in front of the mirror and all her aforementioned inadequate self is on display.

Their eyes meet in the mirror, the top of her head hardly reaches his sternum, and he is bending down kissing her shoulder, still keeping their eyes locked. His hands graze her tits, he makes swirling move over the nipples with the tips of his fingers, she exhales loudly, then his hands brush down her sides, down on the hips, while he is slowly kneeling behind her. He is kissing one of the buttocks now, and then he squeezes his hand between her inner thighs and wiggles his fingers. She complies and places her feet a bit wider. His lips and teeth are creating some sort of magic on her bum, while one long finger slips into her. She raspily moans, her knees are shaking, and he is slowly moving his digit in and out of her.

"Look at yourself," his voice is coarse as well, and she shakes her head. She is squeezing her eyes, and he adds another finger. Her knees give in, and his hand on her waist tightens, holding her upright. "Look at yourself..." The voice is even lower now, almost a growl, and her eyes fly open.

There is blush burning on her cheeks, freckles are even brighter now, her eyes are dark, lips half open. There is pink flush on her body head to toe, and she is mesmerized watching his finger slide into her. His other hand is on her hip, she can see the long fingers.

"You are looking the wrong way," he peeks from behind her hip, and his eyes are dark as well. She meets his, and he opens his fingers on her stomach. "Watch your face..."

She obediently looks, and he starts pumping his fingers in her. She is watching her own face, her lips open more, they are bright red although her lipstick has long been buried in his stomach, her chest is heaving, and all and all… well, she looks fit. It is an interesting thought but she has no time to consider it properly. Orgasm explodes inside her, she gasps, it is so intense that she doesn't even have any voice, and she collapses. He catches her near the floor and drops on his backside. She is a ragdoll in his arms, and he is chuckling into her hair.

"Ready for the bath, little one?" Her eyes were closed, and honestly at this stage she isn't capable of making any decisions.

He lifts her and seats them both in the hot water. There are bubbles, and she giggles. He is massive, furry, covered in tattoos down to his knees, actually there is one on the right calf too, there is still some of the stage makeup left around his eyes, and now bubbles! He smacks her bum, the sound is loud and juicy, she is half in water already. He is well aware she is taking a mickey out of him.

He is leaning his back to the wall, one arm wrapped around her, another one, elbow on a bent knee, and she is studying the long fingers hanging relaxed.

"So, what is it that you do?" She looks at him over her shoulder, her back is pressed to his chest, and she thinks she really likes the chest hair when it's wet. And then the question reaches her mind. He hasn't heard a word she said before. On the other hand, they didn't meet through a matchmaking site.

"I am a pilot," she announces, and he opens one eye.

"And I thought you make wedding bouquets," there is hardly suppressed laughter in his voice, and she smacks his shoulder. He snorts.

"Why the hell then?"

"I couldn't come up with anything else," he arranges her on his chest, his tone is lazy, and she tucks her head under his chin. "And I wanted to talk before the next time."

"What?!" She tentatively shifts her bum and indeed, there will be the next time. She thinks she doesn't mind, though she foresees a lot of discomfort in the next few days. "What do you want to talk about?" He has dropped his head back, and his eyes are closed again. She peeks, he looks like he is sleeping. She feels daft. How is she even supposed to address him? John? Thorin? Your Highness?

"Tell me anything about yourself," his voice is low and all molasses and chocolate syrup. So, not asleep.

"I have my own shop, and we make wedding bouquets. There is honestly nothing else to tell." It comes out silly, and she herself thinks her life sounds sort of pathetic. "Um… I am a very good cook, and I bake." That sounds worse. The corners of his lips twitch. She pouts, he is laughing at her. More blabbering ensues. "I am allergic to almost everything, and it feels like the makeup is eating my eyeballs right now. My friend Thea dragged me to your concert, and put me in these slaggish clothes." He opens his eyes slowly, there are jolly sparkles dancing in them, and she suddenly feels like covering up and fleeing. What is she doing? Sitting in a bath with some bloke she only met several hours ago? And a metal rocker for that matter. She has accepted by then that he seems to see all through her.

"Try washing them with black tea. It really helps with irritation." She is staring at him, there is still a bit black left on his lids, and even like that he manages to look mindblowingly fit. She decides to test the theory that nothing can tarnish his majesticness and gives him a nice foam wig.

He is snorting like a pony, flakes of suds are floating in the bathroom, he is groping her, she is squealing. The next round is him standing up, holding her under her bum, they have hurriedly wiped soap off themselves, he is thrusting in her, she is mewling, pulling at his hair, and they come at the same time. It is a surprise, she never could in a missionary position, although this hardly qualifies as one.

They step back in the shower to wash off the leftover soap, which leads to him groping her again, her squeaking and battering his hands away off her arse, a hundred percent not genuinely, running out of the shower, him chasing after her with a very convincing growl, and another round on the bed. She is lying on the bed, he is kneeling in front of it on the floor, her ankles are on his shoulders, and he is biting the round bones on them. She ends up gently kicking his long nose to make him concentrate on the important stuff, and after they are done, and he takes his usual jog to the bathroom, she is spread on the bed, legs dangling off its edge. She is beyond knackered at this stage, and even her usual fretty self doesn't care what happens next.

Next he slides under the duvet, dragging her with him, arm across her middle, her extremities limp, she snorts from the image from National Geographics popping up in her head, but even she isn't daft enough to compare herself to a gazelle and him to a lion, and he spoons her and nuzzles her wet hair. She can't believe it! The big and scary arse rockers spoon! And nuzzle, apparently! She assumes she isn't expected to leave since he happily sighs into her nape and after a bit of wiggling and unnecessary rubbing some parts to her he starts breathing evenly, and would you just look at that! That's exactly what she is doing, she carefully turned around and is staring at him.

She is really trying to suppress them, but one giggle nonetheless escapes. On one hand, she would have probably felt humiliated if he just had kicked her out. On the other hand, what else was there to expect? Definitely not him peacefully sleeping, holding on to her for dear life at the same time. She tries to move, she isn't actually planning to get out of the bed, it's more of idle curiosity, and he makes a funny snorting noise in his sleep and pulls her into him so tightly she feels a bit worried about breathing. He nuzzles her again, and seriously, that's adorable, and mumbles something in his sleep. He looks much younger when he is sleeping, fluffy lashes are lying under the eyes, lips are relaxed, no sardonic smirks, and she settles in his arms, she is actually very comfortable and for once warm, she is skinny, she is always cold, and decides to do a bit of ogling. She will obviously get out and call a cab soon, and she really doesn't want to think about how it'll feel to walk out of this room. There is still a party raging out there. She is asleep in ten and a half seconds.

* * *

She wakes up thinking Mr. Thornton, her cat has peed in her bed again. He's only done it once before, she left him for a week with Thea when she went to California for a seminar, and he held a grudge. A week after the trip, when she finally relaxed, he crawled under her duvet and peed on her stomach. That's exactly how she is feeling right now.

It's not cat pee, it is the scorching breath of a six foot five metal rocker, happily snoring into her belly. He shifted during the night, his massive arms are wrapped around her hips, and his exhales are hot and damp. It is indeed like sauna under the duvet, he is charring, think furnace with a giant... uhem... She tries to wiggle out of his grip.

She honestly was planning to leave last night. She should have left as soon as he conked out, but the daft old her decided to ogle. He is just so... Everything! She is tentatively pushing his arm off, purposefully not paying attention to how her hand looks on the black ink, and he mumbles something, and then grabs her tighter and pulls her down, under the duvet that is tangled around them. She struggles a bit, but he is already kissing everything he can reach, his eyes are still closed, but parts of him are clearly awake. She shortly wonders if he is even at least a bit conscious or that's just morning.

"Wren, stop fussing," his voice is raspy from sleep, and he gives her neck a long lick, "Let's do it couple times, and then we can talk, alright?" His voice shouldn't be legal.

"I can't couple more times," she sounds very squeaky, "I'm very sore..." He finally opens his eyes and looks at her. The irises are cerulean, the lashes long and thick, and she thinks she must be completely bonkers, because she offers with a shy smile, "Oral?"

An hour later they are cuddling under the duvet, there is no other way to put it, and he is playing with her curls. Her cheek is pressed to his pectoral muscle, and she is tracing the lines of a tattoo with a tip of her finger.

"We are leaving tonight, to New York, and that's the last leg of the tour. Do you want to get together when we are back in a week?" She lifts her head and stares at him. She wants to ask 'just like that?' but the words don't come out.

"Um... That's sort of not me... I mean typical me..." He is listening calmly, she imagines that's how it ends. With her fleeing, and him shrugging it off. It makes sense after all, it was a one-off thing, something to tell her pissed girlfriends in a pub. It's not like leather clad rockers date. He pushes his large hand and cups the back of her head. It makes her want to purr and curl into him. If only it were different...

"I want to try a constant thing with you," he is still chill, but this time the eyes are not laughing. "You are wicked. And the shag was great. Do you want to be my girl?" Out of context it would have sounded daft, and she'd be the first one to roar with sarcastic laughter over this, but she is not thick. She blinks and weighs her options. It might be slightly unorthodox, but she thinks she can adapt. There is the question of tours, and groupies, and booze, but to thinks of it, no relationships are perfect. She smiles widely and leans to his lips. She runs the tip of her tongue on the upper lip, under the black whiskers she couldn't tear her eyes off since he led her backstage, and he sighs into her mouth.

"I do want to be your girl," she whispers, and the large scorching palms cup her face. She climbs on him, stretching on his hot wide body, and they are kissing lazily. He is chill, and she can be chill too. After all, she feels very safe near him, she has her own paladin now.


	83. On a Tight One and Hot Under it

**A/N: SMUT! ****Like seriously, just smut, and a proper smutty one for that matter. Beware the lemons avalanche :)**

**This one is the follow up to #80 "Not That Kind of Christmas Story." My most beloved, loyal reader, Just4Me asked for the continuation of the smut and more tie action for New Year's and I might have taken it a bit further. Uhem...**

* * *

Thorin was finishing reading the last contract when his secretary, Mrs. Perkins walked into his office.

"I'm leaving for lunch, sir." Thorin hummed and smiled to her absentmindedly without lifting his eyes from the paper. It was New Year's Eve, and he wanted to finish earlier and go home. They had plans. "I am supposed to remind you that you have dinner with your wife today. I have ordered flowers like you asked," Mrs. Perkins stepped to the table, and Thorin saw a box wrapped in red paper with a black bow on it in her hands, "And this has been delivered for you." Thorin accepted the box, and Mrs. Perkins left.

The bow wasn't a glued on type, it was an actual black lace ribbon, and after he untied it the red wrapping paper slid off, and he lifted the lid. He felt suddenly hot and jerked the collar of his starched shirt.

He pulled his gift out of the box and carefully turned it in his fingers. It was certainly what he thought it was, but for a moment he even doubted whether it was intended for him. And then he picked up his mobile.

"Kinglet Designs, Wren speaking," the confident, melodic voice of his wife answered, and he cleared his throat.

"It's me," Thorin could hear his own voice was raspy and indecent. "I got your gift..." She hummed noncommittally, and he assumed she had clients near by. On the other hand she sent the gift to his firm and didn't give it to him at home, which means slight exhibitionistic element was part of the game. "I thought we have a table in that French restaurant..." He twirled her present in his hand again. It was intricately made, very expensive looking and probably bespoke.

"I changed my mind. I want to celebrate New Year's home." Her voice was completely even and mundane, and then he heard her answering something to one of her designers. He peeked into the box, there was another part there, and he hooked his finger on it and pulled it out. "Considering the decision we made last week, I realised it might be our last New Year's for a while for this sort of celebration. And you did mention on Christmas you wanted to use your tie for more of the same." He admired her self-control, her voice didn't waver a single time through this conversation. One would think she was talking about sitting in front of telly with popcorn.

They were indeed sort of planning to try something new this New Year's, perhaps some restrains, and they had some fun with his tie at the Christmas party. And they had decided to try for a baby this year, and indeed the prop he was holding in his hand at the moment would probably never see the light of day in the nearest years. But then, looking at it and thinking of her as a hopefully future mother of his child threw him off a bit.

"Wren, I am having doubts..." Among other things he loved the openness and honesty in this marriage. It wasn't hard to share his thoughts with her, and he heard the sound of her steps. She was moving somewhere to speak privately.

"OK, I'm alone now. I'm in a supplies closet," there was some rustling, and then he heard her closing the door behind her. "You are having doubts..."

"That it is a bit too much..." He connected the parts together, and shifted on his chair. Damn, it was tempting, and he did have such fantasies. And as it turned out she knew about them. "How did you know by the way?"

"I know you well, darling," her voice had a bit more purr in it, and he leant back in his chair dropping his head back. "I have to confess, I've been carefully testing some kinks on you, keeping an eye on your reaction." He chuckled.

"That explains all those time you have 'forgotten' to close your porn on the laptop..." She giggled.

"I loved your expression when you saw the dungeon one."

"That looked painful, love."

"Well, I needed to establish the baseline. And tell me I didn't guess with my gift..." That was definitely a purr, and he groaned.

"You do know me well, Wren."

"Do you like it? It is bespoke, I had to go for a fitting." He closed his eyes, she was speaking quietly, and then he realised the voice was a bit breathy. "I have tender skin, they had to find the proper lining, and then the seamstress had to test it..." Thorin gulped with difficulty, he was getting very hard. "I am planning to meet you in the bedroom after work, I have an outfit to go with it..." He quickly pondered opening his fly, that wouldn't be the first time he had to jerk off at work while on the phone with her. She was fond of playing this dirty trick on him. Her lunch phone calls were both a treat and a torture. "By the way... Don't you dare touching yourself," her tone was suddenly authoritative, and he froze his hand on his crotch. "I want all of what you have only for me today."

"I am starting to think you do need this gift more than I do, Wren, you obviously have control issues," he growled into the phone and heard her laugh throatily. Shiver ran down his spine from this laugh.

"That is why I'm giving you a collar and a leash, love." She did indeed. A wide leather collar, with soft lining, and black lace on the red leather on the outside, and a sturdy long chain clasped to it. Thorin pick them up and jingled it near the phone so she could hear.

"See you tonight, Wren." She purred her goodbyes and hung up. He stuffed the collar and the chain back into the box and put it into his briefcase. The day couldn't go faster.

* * *

He entered the hall of their apartment, shook off his coat and toed off his shoes. All rooms seemed dark, except he could see dim light streaming from the bedroom door. Thorin quickly went to the bathroom and washed his hands. He expected even while keeping his wife on a leash, figuratively and literally, he would eventually use his hands. He could never keep them away from her.

She was sitting on the bed in a red and black lace bra and garter belt, her hair pinned up, a rosette of matching lace in it. There were no knickers, and she had very heavy makeup, which he never saw on her before. Lots of black around her eyes, and he understood there were fake lashes. Altogether she looked like a very expensive hooker. Very classy, but definitely a hooker.

He stopped by the door, the collar and the chain in his hand, still fully dressed and not certain how to proceed. They had never done anything of the sort. She gracefully slid off the bed and walked to him. He saw red lipstick on her wide mouth, and his cock twitched.

"Would you like to put it on me now?" Her tone was soft and sensual, and she threw him the look from under the thick black lashes. It felt strange, it was her, but on the other hand it wasn't. The makeup changed the face, and more so the woman in front of him was obedient, sensual, while Wren had always been of the bossy type. He opened a collar, holding it in the air, and she stepped into it. She then bent her head down showing him vulnerable, delicate back of her long neck, and he clasped the collar. She took a few small steps back, the chain shifted, still lying in his palm, and he curled his fingers around it and pulled slightly. Wren took a step closer to him. It felt better than he expected. Because of the height difference he was used to looking down at her, and now he pulled the leash up and she raised her eyes at him.

He walked to the bed leading her after him, and on the duvet he saw his tie they used during Christmas party. He didn't wear it since then, she was biting it to muffle her loud moans and screams, it was chewed beyond looking good anymore, it was kept in the wardrobe and they have talked about using it as restrains couple times since then. He picked it up, and suddenly she turned her back to him her wrists crossed behind her.

"Wren, that might be too much... " He looked at her pale slender wrists. Her skin bruised easily, and again she was already wearing a collar. His eyes shifted from the hands to her naked buttocks, and his cock strained in the pants.

"Maybe just at the beginning..." There was some shy pleading in her tone, completely uncharacteristic to her, she was very demanding in bed, and he realised she was playing a part. He gritted his teeth, he was already very turned on, and her submissiveness was so fresh and exciting, that he bent down and firmly tied her wrists together. He then picked the leash up again and started walking her out of the bedroom.

"But..." There was sincere confusion in her tone, and he smirked. They have christened all possible surfaces in this apartment but he knew she was averse to having sex on the sofa in the living room. It was leather and indeed not the most comfortable, as well as it would ridiculous squeak from the contact with naked skin. But again today Wren was not in charge. He led her to the sofa, he saw the red lips press, but she didn't say anything.

"Climb on," he pointed at the sofa with a nod, and she hesitated but obeyed. "On your knees, back to me." She was barefoot, and then he noticed a thin red ribbon tied around her right ankle in a flirty bow. She knew him well, he had a thing for her feet and for bows. This one was perfect. She climbed on the sofa the way he told her to, and shifted between her knees. He slowly took off his jacket, he could see her watching over her shoulder, he threw the tie over it on the dining table as well, and started rolling up his sleeves.

"Should be discuss when we are stopping, Wren?" He asked quietly, and he saw her shoulders tense.

"I hardly think we need a safe word, we are not having a dom/sub role play here. Once one of us wants to stop I assume the other one would," her tone was once again her usual confident one, and he quickly leaned in and kissed her cheek.

"Of course we would, love," they both were momentarily acting out of characters, and she giggled.

"You destroyed my mood, I was just starting to enjoy being a meek sex slave." He choked on his laughter.

"God, Wren, only you can say that with a straight face." She snorted and turned away from him.

"You should pick up the leash," her tone was her usual bossy one, and he decided, not today. He lifted his hand and gave her buttock a nice juicy slap, mostly just sound, trying to inflict no pain. She yelped and jumped up. He quickly stepped ahead and pressed a hand of the straight left arm onto the back of the sofa near her shoulder.

"I wouldn't be that lippy, little one, when there is a collar around your neck," he kept his voice low, and she pressed her forehead to the back of the sofa silently. The game was on again. He splayed his right hand on her nape, her neck fit between his thumb and index finger, and he applied just enough pressure to show her it was there, and then he slid the hand lower, along her spine. He quickly unclasped the bra, it slid down, but she couldn't do anything her hands tied.

"Stay," he said firmly and heard her exhale sharply. He stroked her shoulder blades, another of his obsessions, and then he licked between then, supporting himself suspended above her, left hand still pressed near her in the leather of the sofa. He started tracing the pattern of freckles on her nape, she was breathing raggedly, and then he quickly pushed his fingers between her buttocks and dipped two fingers inside her. Just as he expected she was very wet, and she whimpered and jerked. "Stay, Wren. Eyes on the wall." He shortly wondered where all these lines of his were coming from, he assumed probably porn, but it was definitely working. She turned her face to the wall, and he started pumping his fingers into her. He knew her body well, right now he was aiming for teasing her close to pleasure but not close enough for her to even ponder orgasm. He was also just a bit more rough than she liked at the beginning. She was starting to moan quietly, and then he thought she tried to move away from his hand.

"Wren?" He asked carefully, and she slightly turned and threw a look at him. The eyes half lidded under the thick make up, she slightly opened her lips and then nodded. He quickly kissed her jaw near the ear and straightened up. Pressing one knee near her he picked up the chain with his free hand and twirled it around his wrist.

He pulled back, she arched, and he simultaneously sank his fingers deeper into her. She moaned loudly, and he scissored his digits in her. He then pulled them out slowly, rubbing the walls thoroughly, making her mewl and squirm.

He paused for a second pondering his options. There were a few things he wanted to do, shagging her from behind holding her tied wrists in one hand was definitely among them, but that was the aggro with using two toys at the same time. He needed to make a good use of the leash first.

Thorin sat on the sofa and gently pulled on the leash. Wren who stayed immobile this whole time followed his movement and slid on the floor between his legs. A blowjob in this case was an obvious cliche, but they both were fond of it, and he deftly opened his belt and trousers. He pulled his cock out, and she was going to lower her lips on it when he gave her a tug. He was trying to be careful, the last thing he needed was to bruise her neck, and she looked at him. Damn, the makeup was really working. Mostly because it was so different, she normally didn't wear any, and the porn actress lashes made her slanted eyes look mesmerising.

"Wipe off the lipstick first," he kept the tone cold, "You might have to bring the tissue box with your teeth though." She jerked but kept her eyes down, and it was starting to drive him crazy. He was fighting intrusive images of already shagging her into the floor, damn the game. But then she started getting up to get the tissues from the coffee table, and he tugged down at the collar not letting her. She gave him a quick look, he returned it firmly, and she went down on all four on the floor and crawled to the table, the chain was long enough for him to keep her on the leash. He watched her, his eyes darting from her folds he could see between the pale buttocks, moving from her crawling, to the small pink soles of her tiny feet. She brought the box to him, indeed in her teeth, and he pulled out a white square. She lifted her face to him. A mask of obedience frozen on it, she was mind blowingly beautiful, he once again felt more turned on but also uneasy from the fact that it was if if it were not quite his wife in front of him. He carefully wiped the red off her lips, and she bent down, he guided his cock into her mouth, and she started sucking. She was both very fond of it, she could actually come doing it, and also very good at it. He suspected she had done extensive research on it before they met. She obviously didn't need hands for it, and soon enough he had to use the leash again. His cock popped out of her mouth with a loud sound, and he softly made her get up.

"Turn around," she did, and he saw the collar smoothly slide around her neck. He took her wrists in one hand, pulled her on his cock, helping with another hand, and she started jumping on him. Her legs were straight, locked together, she was pushing from the floor. They had tested this sofa many times before, this position was giving the best angle. He planted his feet firmly into the floor and leaned back letting her do all the work. She was bobbing industriously, even adding a twist into the movement, and then he tugged the collar, disrupting her rhythm, making her arch her back. Her bouncing stuttered, and she gasped. He let go and after a few deep breaths in, she went back to her work. And then he jerked again, this time making her fall back onto him. He added more tension into the leash, not letting her move away, and then caught her mouth in an askew kiss over her shoulder.

He was kissing her deeply, tangling their tongues, and when he assumed her mind was fogged enough, he covered her fanny with his hand and rubbed her clit forcefully with his thumb. She cried out but could not move away, his cock was deep in her, and her neck was controlled by the leash. He rubbed and then tapped several times with tense straight fingers, she wailed, and he started switching between gentle pinches and tight circles of his thumb.

"Please stop, it's… Too much..." He halted and splayed his hand on her stomach.

"Do you want your hands free now, love?" His voice was still coarse, and she guessed by his intonation that the game was continuing.

"Yes, please." The tone was perfect obedience and submission. He let go of some length of the leash, she climbed off him, gasping loudly when his cock slid out of her, and he untied her wrists. She rubbed them while he quickly took off his shirt and socks. Somehow leaving his trousers felt more dominating, the fly was open but he was still dressed, while he saw her shaking off the bra that was dangling around her arms the whole time. She was right though, the sofa was annoying, and he led her back to the bedroom now.

"On your stomach," he ordered, and she climbed on the bed. Her pert bum in the air, she froze on all four. "Down, Wren." She gave him a look over her shoulder, and he saw familiar sarcastic expression. Apparently the walk through the apartment was long enough for her to forget her part. He quickly knelt behind her and pulled the leash. It made her rise on her knees, her calves were locked between his on the bed, and her back pressed into his chest. He put his hand on the collar, his thumb index finger under her chin, and he bent over and caught her mouth in another askew kiss. And then he pushed her ahead, flat on her stomach, "I said down, Wren." Her body slightly bounced, she was fond of springy mattresses, he pushed her knees apart, one hand with a leash in it pressed on the bed near her head, another quickly on his cock, and he pushed into her without warning. Still grasping the chain, he started snapping his hips into her, roughly, he wasn't going to come, he just needed to release a bit of tension. After the initial cry and her hands thrashing on the sheets, she now lay in the bed without moving, completely passive, body relaxed and jerking from his thrusts. He went on for a bit and then pulled out. He took a few deep breaths in, exhaling through rounded lips. She lay still, and he leaned in and whispered in her ear, halting the game for a bit, "Wren, alright?" She hummed in agreement, he could see she was breathing heavily too.

He then knelt again and sat on his heels. He pulled at the leash, she started rising clumsily, he could see her body trembling, and he led her on his cock. This position was one of his favourite, it was very deep and he loved watching her buttocks bounce , his cock disappearing in her.

She settled into a rhythm pretty quickly, although he could see she was getting tired, and then suddenly she folded her arms on her back, forearms together. He had hands large enough to encircle both of them, but he still wasn't sure it was a good idea. Yes, he wanted it and wouldn't get a chance now that they had untied her hands, but he couldn't be sure he wouldn't get carried away and squeeze her wrists, leaving bruises.

"Please..." Her tone was pleading, and he carefully curled his fingers around the narrow wrists. Between this and the leash he was rhythmically pulling at by the other hand he felt completely in control over her motions, and soon he was losing caution, he was pulling her into him, each time accompanied with her increasingly loud screams, and she would start falling ahead, and he would jerk her back. She was getting louder, and then he started to feel increasing pressure inside her, she was getting close to orgasm. Her head was dropped as much as the collar allowed, her hair swaying, the pins lost in the bed somewhere, and the semblance to a ragdoll and the fact that he was pretty much pulling her onto his cock without much participation from her now made him almost mad from arousal.

He was only feeling hungrier, he wanted more, so he pushed her ahead, off him. She fell on the bed passively. He jerked off his trousers and pants, and then he remembered of the position she would normally be least pleased with. He grabbed her under her arms, she didn't resist, her head dropped ahead and hair having fallen on her face, he rolled on his back and placed her on top of him on her back. She made a predictably displeased noise, very weak though, but he already spread her legs dropping them on the sides of his body, and before she could say anything he grabbed his cock, pressed the tip into her entrance and sharply bucked his hips. His cock hit some back wall, and she wailed.

She didn't like this position for exactly the lack of control from her and for the fact that she would be very open, she had a sensitive clit, especially if it had been stimulated by then for a while, and he would always make sure she had the ability to regulate what was done to it. At the same time he was larger than an average man and his cock had a curve, steeper when he was properly turned on, at the moment he felt he was going to explode, while she was small, tight, and her vagina had an unusual curve to it as well. In this position he would fuck her harder and more sensitively than in any other, and she would have no control over it.

One of his hands to the side, pulling at her leash, making her strain her back instinctively to protect her neck, another arm wrapped around her, his hand almost covering both of her small tits, he was fucking her harshly, his hips jumping on the bed, propelled even more by the mattress, her body sliding up on his cock, and falling down, her taut buttocks bouncing off him, and she was battering her hands on the sides. The noises she was making were new, he had never heard these raspy groans, with a shrieky squeak at the end, when she would sink on him and his tip would tap her cervix. His testes were swaying, and he let go of the leash and her tits, and grabbed her hips, his fingers sinking in her flesh. Then he shifted them, sliding his palms on her inner thighs, kneading them and brushing his thumbs on her clit, roughly and sloppily, and she was howling non stop now.

Her cries changed, they almost sounded like sobs, and they suddenly reached his mind, and he gritted his teeth, and made himself slow down, his hips still jerking irregularly without his control, but he felt his sense was at least a bit back, and he picked up her chin and turned her face to see her eyes. Tears mixed with black from her lids were trickling on the side of her face, and he felt mortified. Did he misread what was going on? She whined quietly, a small whimper, and his throat constricted from panic. He was holding his body under control now, some muscles shaking in his upper legs and stomach.

"So good..." She breathed out, and then blinked, the lashes fluttered, and she gulped, her throat moving under the heel of his palm. "But I think my hip twisted. Can we move?" Her voice was suddenly completely mundane, and he stared at her.

"Wren?.." She pressed her hands into the sheets, rolled off him carefully not to jerk his cock, and with a groan she sat up on the bed on her knees.

"Yeah?" She was fixing the collar, and he just couldn't believe it. Was her wailing and the tears that she was now meticulously wiping, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling, was it all an act?!

"I thought it was too much..." He sounded almost offended, and she looked at him hiking her brows.

"It was intense, but not too much. I'd have told you otherwise." She picked up the leash and stretched her hand with it to him. He could certainly say at that moment he was not in the mood anymore.

"Can you take this thing off please?" His voice was unpleasant but he felt like an idiot. He got carried away, felt horrible about it, and now she was sitting in front of him nonchalantly fixing her porn actress makeup! She gave him an attentive evaluating look. Damn all that porn and its totally fake images!

"I thought we were having fun..." Her tone was pensive.

"Well, I was!" He bit back and cringed.

"Oh I see," her voice was that calm resolved tone of hers that he was so familiar with, and he fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The damn erection was still cheerfully pointing up and into the stars. He heard the collar unclasp, the chain jingled, and she threw it off the bed on the floor. There was more shuffling and suddenly her cool silk body stretched on him. She was naked now, the belt and even the ribbon from her ankle were gone, and he didn't want to but he looked and met her attentive eyes. The damn paint was still there, but unlike before that was definitely his Wren. One corner of her lips was curled up sarcastically, and one eyebrow was cocked above the damn porn lashes. "Are we grumpy because we didn't get a chance to brutalise our wife?"

"What?! No! Don't be ridiculous!" His voice broke as if he were thirteen, and she suddenly started laughing loudly and dropped her forehead on his chest.

"God, that righteous indignation of yours," she was snorting, and he considered pushing her off him. He never would of course. She lifted her face again and brushed the tip of her index finger on his bottom lip. "Love, sex is messy and psychologically complicated. Why do you think porn and erotica and kinks are such a viral thing? There are no simple answers in sex. You did something that freaked you out, and you enjoyed it, and it freaked you out more." He puffed air out in an irritated exhale. Great, a lecture on social and psychological significance of shag. "Do you want just to shag like a boring married couple? Because that was totally fun but I think I just prefer you shagging me into the sheets plain and simple." He looked at her from the corner of his eye and saw her wide mouth stretched in a merry smile, laughing amber eyes and turned up freckled nose.

"I hate the porn make up," he grumbled, and she laughed again.

"Good, because it feels like tabasco and Sriracha mixture on my eyeballs. And I think I might have glued the lashes to the eyeballs as well." She stretched and gave a playful bite to his jaw. "More so, I'm going to totally kill your mood and go wash it off now, while your cock is still poking me demanding attention, because no way in hell I'm enduring this shite for another minute. From the mind blowing shag of couple minutes ago I think I smeared all this paint in and now it might be reaching the optic nerve. So sorry about this," she rolled off him and climbed off the bed. He watched her slender figure disappeared in the open door into the ensuite bathroom. "By the way my eyes are going to be red and puffy once I wash it off, so if you still want to shag me afterwards, that will be like shagging a bunny with hay fever."

"You are a bunny with hay fever," he called back to her. And then he started laughing and stretched his back on the sheets.

"Only in May, love," she answered over the noise of running water, the door of the vanity cabinet banged, some more clanking and banging ensued, and she came out of the bathroom, cotton ball in her hands. "The rest of the year I'm just a sex bunny with food allergies." He turned his head and looked at her. She was standing leaning on the door frame, completely comfortable in her nakedness, and he smiled to her.

"You are very beautiful." She was his Wren, her strange angular features were back, pale freckled face, long lashes, though less impressive now after the comparison with the porn fans, her hair scattered on the shoulders, and she smirked.

"Hold this thought," she returned to the bathroom, the water ran again, and then she came back and climbed on him again. His erection was gone already, and he felt exhausted. "Do you want me to leave you alone or alternatively remind you that it's New Year's and next year around this time I'll hopefully be round, bloated and not wanting any sex? I'll probably be interested strictly in foot rubs and some strange food combinations like onion with marmalade or something." She sounded very pleased with the prospect.

"Well, as a long time married couple we should tick the box, so how about a quick hand job, and at the very end you will quickly straddle me and we both have a slightly unsatisfying orgasm?" He gave her a wide smile, and she started slowly backing up placing a kiss after a kiss first on his sternum, then stomach, heading quite obviously towards his cock. Three kisses later the cock was as ready as it gets.

"How about I give you the best oral you've had in your life, come from it, and at the end you roll me under you in throes of passion they describe in romance novels and make love to me as if the destiny of the world depended on it?" The sexy tigress purr was back, accompanied with possessive clawing and couple bites on his hipbone, and he sighed happily.

The first long lick followed, and he rasped out, "I've never read a romance novel…" His tip slid in her throat, and he groaned, "Oh fuck... But if you provide some guidance..."

"Don't worry," she released him for a second to purr, and then her little pink tongue danced on the ridge, "Just do as I say, and you'll be fine." Thorin shortly thought that it was quite obvious who was on a leash in this family and immediately thought he didn't mind. And then no thoughts could be formed in his quickly fogging mind.


	84. Cloth Napkins

**A/N: This one is for Dopamine07. As you requested, my beloved reader, there is the sequel to _#70 Little Red Pompom_. Hopefully, you might enjoy it a bit :D**

He is eating his penne, his manners are impeccable, and you consider asking for wine. You are intolerant, so you will drink, and your head with drop on the table with a dull thud. Or if you are still not done with your minestrone by then, then there will be a splash and bubbles around your nose. Then you wonder if the splatter will come off his white shirt, and assume that probably not. It looks very good though, he looks good. He looks so good that you are considering ordering a bottle.

You look worse. You are wearing your best dress and still feel like a phony. You are a single mom and a day nursery teacher, you wear comfortable frumpy clothes all day. You put on your only stilettos, and right now your most ardent desire is to take them off with a loud sensual moan. You haven't worn them since that wedding that you and your husband went to and had an argument about on the way there, and on the way from there. To think of it you were fighting even during the vows. You were hissing, he was clenching his well defined jaw.

When you were taking this dress out of your wardrobe two hours ago, you found a shirt. You still don't understand how an item of clothing can be forgotten in the flat of one's ex wife. There was all this packing, discussing, dividing furniture, and still you found a shirt. It's been stuffed there because the sleeves are too short. He still wore it under jumpers, rolling up sleeves and looking good doing it. The man in front of you is also dressed in a white shirt, a grey grandpa cardigan over it, but he looks nothing like a grandpa. Except he is a grandpa, to think of it, your previous date was in a chippie shop with Mira and his grandnephew, and it was ace. You only blurted some rubbish twice, and he was polite enough to let your blabbering slip.

"Wren?" You jump up and stare at him like an emoticon consisting on two capital O's and an underscore between them. 'O' indeed. He is so fit you blink frantically. That is the state called bedazzled. Obviously you mean the 1967 version, not that monstrosity with Liz Hurley.

"Um, yeah?" He is smiling to you warmly, and all you can think of is how uncomfortable you are and whether you put deodorant on. You could never understand why Pepper Potts mentions it in _Iron Man,_ but now you can relate. You did put it on, and you even styled your hair in some semblance of a do, but still you feel like your carriage will turn into a pumpkin any moment. You have nail varnish on and mascara, which you never ever do. You look after twenty four four-year olds, you colour, make playdough monsters and read about Paddington all day long, and when you come home at the end of the day you have glue, sparkles, pieces of string, shreds of colorful paper, juice, lotion, and sadly an extensive amount of snot covering you head to toe. You are not a teal jersey sheath dress kind of girl. Yesterday you wore a tee with Cookie Monster to work. You might still have cookie dough stuck somewhere on your body, you took two showers since then, but there have been precedents. There is a big chance that a miracle happens, this date doesn't end in disaster, and another one doesn't, which is almost improbable, and even still the third one happens, and you two end up in a horizontal position and some items of clothes are taken off, and then he most likely will find a temporary tattoo of a Lightning McQueen on your ankle or a stamp with Clifford that Mira tends to gift you with generously. And you hate the taste of lipstick currently mixed into your pasta.

He is successful, refined, he is drinking water to support your abstinence, meaning he will still be sober when it comes to deciding whether this date was any good, which means that is your last one. Instead of your usual verbal diarrhea, you are experiencing the opposite aggro at the moment. Your previous 'um, yeah?' was the fifth phrase you said to him over the course of assorted antipasto, soup and currently Ricotta Gnocchi. Maybe you'll order some liqueur with your coffee. Then you won't have to go through the humiliation of him promising to call and lying through his teeth.

"Is your dinner OK?" His tone is caring, and you feel sad. You will never find out how his beard feels like. You go for your usual approach in such situations. Pathetic whining and backing off.

"I'm sorry… I am sort of not feeling OK..." You are sure you are adequately greenish. You are nauseated when you are nervous. Right now you are past 'long road trip sick' stage and reaching the level of 'stomach flu sick.'

He is all concern and polite helping you into your coat, then catching a cab, and you are sipping from a bottle of water he made a waiter get for you. He helps you out of the car, pays, and is supporting your elbow while you are trying not to impersonate one of the robbers from _Home Alone _on the porch of your building.

And then the cursed verbal inconsistence wakes up.

"Would you like to come in?" You wonder if there was some alcohol in the sauce to your pasta. There isn't a single good reason for him to agree on that. Except he might want to avoid an awkward but honest answer of 'I'd rather not.' Also, your flat pretty much looks like the continuation of your work place. Last night you and Mira made a giant spider out of a Danish cookies box and pipe cleaners, and it's hanging from the chandelier in the living room. It is also wearing Mira's sunglasses, shaped like Minnie Mouse heads. On the kitchen wall there are drawings of pumpkins. He will not know it but the initial shape is made by dunking your backsides into paint and pressing them to the wall, stripes and stems added later. You have two rats living in a giant cage in the bathroom, there is a notice on the cage door that says 'Pinkie and No-Brainer live here.' You pretty much live in a mad house, and you adore your life, but nothing about it says 'This is a woman a successful hydroengineer with a mind-blowingly fit arse would want to shag.'

"Gladly," you get a wide smile from him, and nausea intensifies, "I'd be glad to see Mira. She didn't finish telling me about that blister she got from the bike helmet." You wonder if that was well veiled sarcasm and he is a sadist, or he is even more perfect that you thought.

* * *

You let him into the flat, he slips on a tiny wind up car in the hall and lands on his backside. He hisses, still managing to suppress a swearing, and your Leary-Tourette kicks in.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry! Please, do swear if it helps. Mira is staying over at her friend's house, they are having a sleepover, probably watching _Frozen_ again, I really don't understand what it is about this cartoon, I liked _Brave_ more, but it's probably because she is a ginger, and Celtic of sorts, and again I've always liked archery, I even won a trophy at school..." You continue more of the same, while jerking his arm up, with both of your hands, supposedly helping him to get up. It is a rather unsuccessful endeavour since he is not trying to rise, and you are unstable on your stilts. You wobble, he grabs you around your waist, and you are on his lap. You are terrified you fell on some sensitive areas, when you understand he did in on purpose. He gently cups your face, there is a moment of eye contact, your inner feminist cheers to the consent asking, while your inner chick that had none since divorce yells into your ear to grab him before he comes to his senses and bolts.

He leans in, and you close your eyes. His lips brush to yours tentatively, and you are holding your breath. You really hope he is a good kisser, but even if he isn't you don't care, to think of it. He tastes amazing, his lips are soft and warm, and your fingers curl around the collar of his cardigan. His fingers are splayed on your shoulder blades, you lean closer, you are the first to cross the line from middle school kissing, you brush his upper lip with your tongue, and then the seven month abstinence makes your libido roar and rush into attack.

* * *

You would like to say you come to your senses when the buttons on his shirt are already open, your dress is pooling around your waist, and you are kissing his stomach, but the truth is... you don't. You are still enthusiastically sampling all this luxurious delicacy under you, when he suddenly sits up, gently pulling you up, and cups your face again.

"Wren?" You hum to show you are listening while unbuckling the belt on his trousers. "Wren..." This time the tone is cautioning. Is he warning you against unwise life choices?

"Hm?" The blasted contraption is stuck, and you growl.

"We are on the floor of your hall."

"It's the least messy room in the flat," you twist your head and bite in the beard covered jaw. Finally! And the official verdict is... Oh. My. God.

"A bed would surely be more comfortable..." You peek, he is squinting his eyes like a cat. Good to know it's working for him too. You move away slightly. He doesn't look like he is planning to bolt. You are giving him a suspicious look over. He is dishevelled, shirt open, he has a hairy chest, which you've never liked, and right now might orgasm from, the pupils are dilated, eyes burning. He looks properly turned on. Unbelievable. You are suddenly terrified that it is the teal dress, stilettos and the makeup that led to his large hands groping your arse. Cue Leary-Tourette again.

"I'm wearing knickers with koalas." The glacial blue eyes widen, and the thick black eyebrows jump up. "I didn't expect you to see them so I put on what I usually wear. I wear silly underwear, and I'm not classy. Or confident. Or sophisticated. And we had Crunchy Nut Clusters for dinner last night. I never have nail varnish on my hands and wear colourful hair bands. I cry every time Aladdin sets Genie free, and I sing in shower. I'm tone deaf, and I sing Disney songs there. I can't shag you now and then pretend it didn't happen." He is studying your nose, and it twitches of course. "I'm a single mom, and I love my job, although the twenty four kids can drive you bonkers on a daily basis! If we get up now and start walking to the bedroom, I'll change my mind. You are super fit, and generally wonderful, and all I wanted from you was couple orgasms, but I can't..." You choke on your tirade and take a spasmodic gulp of air into your empty lungs.

He leans in and gently kisses your jaw. Apparently it's an erogenous zone. Although at this stage even through the haze of embarrassment and terror you feel like every inch of your skin is an erogenous zone.

"You are classy. Oddly chatty but classy," he murmurs into your skin, and you melt. "And I love that you are a day nursery teacher. And I love that there are kids pictures on every wall I've seen in your flat, which is only three so far," he chuckles, he has warm eyes, and you think he might indeed be just wonderful. "And that there is a bit of some sparkle glue behind your ear." OK, he should shut his gob right now, because you are once again going from swooning to being embarrassed. "Can you please wear knickers with koalas when we finally get to shag?" His shoulders are shaking from laughter. "Are you the shag on the third date type of girl or I have a hope for it next time? I really want to see the koalas." His joking is light, but you have already slightly sobered up. The daze from all this mental copping off on your hall floor is wearing off, and you are cold.

"Depends if you are going to disappear right after it. If yes, then we might just get it out of the way today." Oh god, what kind of idiot says something like that?! That is exactly why men run from starved women like you.

"It depends on the shag, I suppose," he has pushed his fingers into your hair, and his hands are so large that he manages to stroke your jaw with his thumbs at the same time. Is he actually answering your daft remark? "I mean, if we are incompatible in bed, we can't build relationships on personal admiration alone, right?"

You jump off him, grab his hand and propel towards the bedroom. He said 'build relationships' and 'personal admiration.' Even if it's pull talk, you are fine with it.

* * *

You are compatible in bed. He is breathing under you, raggedly, taking big gulps on air with his open mouth, and you fall on his chest. Definitely liking the hair.

"God, Wren, what was that?! I think I went blind and deaf just now..." He sounds like after cheering at a footie match plus two periods of extra time and five penalty shootouts.

"I really like you," you purr and gently bite into his pectoral muscle. He tastes salty.

"I like you too, but that was what?.. Orgasm number five for you?"

"It's six for me, it's five for you." He grabs you around your waist and flips you on your back. The blue eyes are studying your face with merry disbelief dancing in them.

"We are dating now, OK?" You are grinning from ear to ear, and he quickly pecks your lips, "God, really didn't see this coming..." He is shaking his head in amusement, "I hoped you are not frigid, but seriously..."

"We are dating?" You decide to confirm just in case.

"We are decisively dating," he guffaws and theatrically bites into your shoulder. "I'm starving now. Can I also have Crunchy Nut Clusters for dinner?"

Awww, and he listens. Definitely wonderful.


	85. Night Witches

**A/N: So, yeah, that all happened because RA looks so damn good in _Captain America. _Blame their costume department :D**

**I am certain that this story has a disgusting amount of historical errors! But it is an AU, and I do what I want! :D **

**Just so you know, 'Night Witches' are real, Bletchley Park is real, and the premise is valid, as well as the language games inside. The rest is at your merciful judgement, my beloved readers! **

* * *

"So, duckie, how are you enjoying your evening?" He turns around and sees a very attractive young woman, bright lipstick on plump lips and a generous chest. He gulps and fixes his glasses yet again sliding on the tip of his nose. She is studying his face, and he shifts uncomfortably. He really doesn't know how to speak to women. "Say, you are one of them quiet type, yeah, cookie?" She is smiling to him benevolently, a thick Cockney accent in her speech. She is very tall, endless legs, dark waves scattered on her shoulders, and he considers excusing himself and fleeing. He even throws a cautious look at the door. "Even better so," she purrs and pulls his sleeve. "Let's go, I'll introduce you to my friend." He wants to object, but the stammer doesn't allow him to squeeze it out of him. She is pulling his jacket, and he doesn't know himself why he follows her.

She pushes him gently towards a table, and he is staring at the most unusual woman he has ever seen in his life. She has a face of a fae, slanted green eyes, bright orange hair in an elegant hairdo, untouched drink in front of her.

"Here, my friend, is a dolly from the Soviets they asked me to show around. But I thought considering she hasn't been able to tear her eyes off you for the last half an hour, you should take care of her." He looks at the busty brunette in shock. "She is one of the Night Witches, have you heard of them? The precision bombing pilots from Russia, all chicks." He immediately stares at the redhead. She gives him a pleasant, slightly confused smile. "And she doesn't speak English. Well, enjoy your kicks!" The brunette pushes him to the table and saunters away.

* * *

He opens and closes his mouth several times, and then clears his throat. He is aware of the Night Witches. The most highly-decorated female unit in the Soviet Air Force, thirty out of forty of them dead in combat each month, 23,000 sorties, 3,000 tons of bombs dropped, Polikarpov Po-2 biplanes, a 1928 design intended for use as training aircraft and for crop-dusting, exceptional maneuverability. As night bombers they idle the engine near the target and glide to the bomb release point, with only wind noise to reveal their location. German soldiers likened the sound to broomsticks and named the pilots 'Night Witches.' Due to the weight of the bombs and the low altitude of flight, the pilots carry no parachutes.

The redhead looks to the part of the bar where her escort disappeared and lifts her brows. Leaving her now would be leaving her alone in a crowded, smoke filled military bar surrounded by drunk soldiers and officers. Without language and anyone to look after her. Her remarkable eyes, that he now sees are neither green, no hazel, shift on him, she points after the brunette and asks something in her native tongue. There is a mellow drawl to her voice, and a lot of rolling and surprisingly harsh consonants suddenly standing out between very open vowels. He is a linguist and acoustics specialist, it is like music to his ears. And it does sound like some sort of a tune. After hours and hours of German tapes, it's a bliss.

The cursed stammer constricts his throat but he takes a deep breath in. OK, John, pull it together. He sits in front of her and points at himself, "John."

She smiles and pronounces something long and beautiful. At the end he hears 'Wrena,' rhyming with 'Tina.'

"Wrena?" She nods and then gestures something long and wavy in the air with her small slender hands, and then moves them closer together, obviously showing a contraction. "Wrena..." She smiles.

"Nice to m-meet you, Wrena," he stretches his hand ahead, and she firmly takes it and shakes. She throws one more look after the woman who left her with John, long lashes flutter, and then she meets his eyes. "So you are a p-pilot, right?" She blinks and nods.

She answers affirming, it sounds like 'peelot' when she pronounces it, and she smiles. She spreads her arms and mimics a plane, the way children do it, and he laughs. He notices the glass in front of her.

"Not g-good? Would you like s-something else?" There is probably brandy in it, and she scrunchies her nose and shakes her head. She pronounces something that sounds like 'vahdah,' and he has an idea. He quickly runs to the bar and brings her a bottle of Cola. The slanted eyes fall on the label. There is another long sentence from her, he is once again enjoying the melodic intonation. "It is a soft d-drink, for ch-children. No alcohol in it." He shows a height about a foot above the dirty bar floor, and she is staring at his hand.

And then she picks up the bottle and tentatively presses the neck to her lips. There is bright red lipstick on them, she has a wide mouth, and she takes a small sip. She apparently didn't expect the fizz, because she coughs and her turn up nose starts twitching.

The red lips form a surprised circle, and she pronounces some funny word.

"What?" He asks, and she giggles. She makes a fizzing sound and wiggles her fingers in the air mimicking bubbles. "Yes," he chuckles, "B-bubbles."

"Bahbahlz," she repeats as if trying the word on her tongue, and then she takes another sip. The freckled nose is scrunched again, but she doesn't seem displeased. "Leemanat."

"Lemonade?" He looks at her, and she nods and lifts the bottle in front of him.

"Leemanat, da," there are more words after that. John understands it is a synecdoche, calling the class by one member, Russians probably call all soft drinks 'lemonade.' She takes another sip and probably compliments the taste, the voice is a bit lower, and she sounds very pleased. And then she licks her lips and looks at his glass. She points with her delicate finger and asks something. He has finished his Scotch when her escort assaulted him.

"I'm g-good, th-thank you." She fishes a pristine white handkerchief out of the sleeve of her brown dress, wipes the neck of her bottle and quite obviously offers to pour some in his glass. He stretches a hand with it towards her, and they watch the dark liquid slosh into the tumbler. They drink in silence, and then she points at him.

"Peelot?" He shakes his head.

"Linguist. Bletchley Park." She is listening attentively, he is trying not to stare at her lips closing around the neck of the bottle. He cannot talk to women, he cannot talk in general, but with her it is surprisingly easy. She mimics pressing a receiver to her ear. He nods. "Yes, ac-coustics." The word apparently has an equivalent in Russian and makes sense to her. She suddenly stretches her hand and brushes the tips of her fingers on the helix of his ear. He can't suppress a shiver. She has cold hands, and to reach him she leaned over the table. Her face was very close, and he inhaled the fragrance of lilacs coming from her soft curls.

"Ooshi," she pronounces pointedly, and then brushed her own lobe. "Ooshi." Her sibilant fricative 'sh' is harsher than in English, and he tries to reproduce it.

"Oosh-shi..." She giggles and takes another sip of Cola. "Ear," he offers her the translation. She hikes up her eyebrows and make a funny squeak like noise. He remembers that Slavic languages do not have diphthongs, she can only pronounce the 'ee' part of 'ear.'

"I l-like 'ooshi' better," he jokes, and she laughs. Probably at the pronunciation and not at the joke, but he doesn't care. He made her smile. And then her finger is pressed to the tip of his nose.

"Noss," she announces, and he is staring at her. She laughs at his flabberghasted expression. She presses the finger to hers now, he notices bright red nail varnish on short nails, "Noss."

"N-nose. Yes, it's a n-nose in English t-too." He only understands that it is not an innocent game in linguistics when she brushes her thumb over his bottom lip.

"Goobah," his trained ear catches the change in the tone, the melodic voice has dropped, the Russian female voices are generally lower-pitched than of female English speakers. He sees the corners of her lips curve up slightly, and heat suddenly licks his neck under the corner of the shirt. She repeats the word, the fingertips run on his upper lip now, and he is completely confused. His glasses slide down, and he nervously pushes them up. And then she picks them up by the temples and pulls them off. He blinks frantically, she is blurry for a second, and she puts them on herself. They are very strong, he is very shortsighted, and she laughs and comments on them. The frame is thick and heavy, and her narrow face looks especially delicate in them.

"Wouldn't it root ya?" An angry, clearly Aussie voice is heard over John's head, he catches the specific Sydney pull in the vowels, and he sees a young burly A.I.F pilot. The uniform is in disarray, the man is clearly drunk, and his eyes are foggy. "Lot of hot cock, a Bolshie bint?.." The man sways, and she is looking at him through John's glasses.

Couple more come up and start pulling their mate away. One of them, also clearly drunk, starts apologising, and John realises his hand is clenched into a fist on the table. He has never hit anyone in his life. He is a large bloke, has been the tallest at school, and then in his year in Cambridge. He has never even been bullied for his stutter, perhaps also because of the boxing trophy for five years in a row. The Aussie jerks out of his crew members hands and steps to the table, pointing his finger into the redhead's face. She winces away.

John's left handed hook meets the Aussie's liver after 'upter pissaphone' slurred into the girl's face. The drunkard crashes on the floor, he flails his arms trying to get up, but his mates grabs him under his arms and drag him aside asking to forgive the 'balls-up cactus.'

John is standing by the table, still not understanding what has just happened, when a small cool hand snakes into his. She is walking out of the bar, pulling him after her, her phrases sound like purry meowls of a cat, and he follows as if in his sleep. They step outside, and she looks up into the dark sky above. She is still holding his hand, and then she starts talking. He is listening to her voice, the speech is raspy, and there is a low hum, r's roll, but not is a harsh Irish way, it's a purr, sultry, there is an exhale at the end of the phrases, and she turns to him. The slanted eyes shine, and she suddenly presses her palms on his chest.

Her amber eyes roam his face, and he realises they have forgotten his glasses on the table in the bar. And then she grabs the lapels of his jacket and pulls him down. He still cannot believe that it is happening, and she sharply pronounces some short phrase. It sounds like a command, she is asserting something, and he blinks frantically.

"Wh-what?" Still holding one lapel firmly, she pushes her hand into the handbag on her shoulder and takes out a key. She dangles it in front of his nose.

"Da?" That much is clear. He gulps and looks at her red lips.

"Da." There is more aspiration in his 'd,' the tip of his tongue comes to a short contact with the ridge of teeth, but obviously his answer is hard to misunderstand.

* * *

They walk silently, they stationed the Russian pilots in a large building just few blocks away, and she hurriedly goes up the stairs. The room is small and bare, just a bed and a chair. He sees a suitcase by the wall and a brush on the table. There are two books, neatly placed on the corner of her bed, and she moves them to the chair.

He is frozen in the middle of the room, it is obviously not his first encounter of the sort, but the circumstances are clearly unusual. The war is a messy affair, everyone behaves out of sorts, there are dances, then drinks, he is invited to women's rooms. He doesn't know how to talk to women, charming chatty officers obviously have more success, but the height and the trained body ensure him if not frequent but stable attention when he comes to the city. He is mostly confined to the Park, and the rumours are they will not be allowed to leave at all soon. That was the only reason he went to the bar today. The last hooray, so to say…

His last hooray unpins the small hat from her curls and starts unbuttoning her dress, and he wakes up and covers her hands with his, her slender fingers disappear under his palms. They have not even kissed once.

"Um… Sh-should we?.." He gets stuck, and it's not the stammer. What can he offer? Should they talk first? They can't. Should they have a drink? They left the bar, and she obviously doesn't drink.

She tilts her head and suddenly gives him a wide smile. She purrs something comforting, and her small hands stroke his upper arms. Then she quickly unbuttons his jacket and the waistcoat, he is watching deft long fingers. A short disbelieving laugh bursts out of him, she has just carefully hung his clothes on the back of the chair. She then adds his tie to it, opens two of the buttons on his shirt and points on the bed.

"Syat," her tone is slightly teasing, and it is one of the roots common in all Indo-European languages, and he sits on the edge of the bed. She climbs on his lap and settles comfortably. He is once again staring at the freckled nose, and she giggles. And then giving him an impish look she reviews the material of the previous class, "Ooshi, noss, goobah..." Each of the body parts gets a little tickle by her index finger, and he chuckles.

"Y-yes, we h-have learnt th-these. Something n-new?" He is smiling to her, and she leans in and kisses the corner of his lips.

"Rott," once again there is no aspiration in her 't,' no exhale, but then she runs her tongue along his bottom lip. The next word is too complicated for him, and he wraps his arms around her and catches her mouth in a deep kiss. When he releases her mouth, she exhales the same word again. It sounds approximately like "puzzuluh" but he understands he is missing some sounds there.

"W-what is it?" She smiles, and her fingers run along the collar of his shirt and she pushes them into the short hair at the back of his head.

"Kiss," his eyebrows jump up, and she giggles again. It sounds more like 'keess.'

"D-do you know any m-more English?" She nods and starts meticulously going through the list in her thick accent.

"Teekit, speetfayer, offitzer, ayer fors, dreenk," she is smiling to him proudly, and he leans in and kisses her again. She twists from under his mouth and puts her tiny finger on his lips, "Keess."

"Kiss," he agrees, and she repeats her 'puzzuluh' word. Her hands are now mussing his hair, and she purrs something approving. She then twirls a thread of his hair around her finger. He decides he is allowed to reciprocate and starts pulling pins out of her curls. It is of astonishing orange colour, if he didn't know better with that pale skin he'd take her for an Irish girl. Heavy curtain of flaming hair falls on her shoulders, and she wrinkles her nose. Her next word sounds harsh, and there is a bit of scorn in her voice.

"Ryzhaya," this one is easy to guess as well. The Gaelic "ruadh" and French 'rouge' or 'roux.' He picks up handfuls of the silky curls.

"B-beautiful," he is trying to show how he feels by the intonation, and she apparently understands, because she makes a sceptical 'poof' sound. He assumes it's a Russian equivalent of 'pffft.' "Very, v-very beautiful… Like c-coppered g-gold..." He starts stammering more once he has to use verbal persuasion, but thankfully it is hardly required here.

She cups his jaw and kisses his cheek. She then rubs the tip of her nose to the underside of his jaw. There is probably stubble there, the dark shadows seem to be appearing on his face before he can put down a razor.

"Sheeteena," she laughs, and he assumes it is 'stubble,' the word is bristly on its own. More purring follows, she apparently doesn't mind, and then she straightens up and her eyes are laughing. She gestures something confusing, as if showing fat cheeks, her rounded hands under the sides of her face. He does not understand? Is she talking about gaining weight? Eating? "Baradah..." She speaks in a sing song voice and then sighs theatrically. Judging by the impish eyes and lips pressed together to suppress laughter she is teasing him.

"B-beard? Are you t-talking about a b-beard?" She gives it a thought and nods.

"Da, beed," that is as close as she can come to pronouncing 'beard,' and she strokes his cheeks with her narrow hands, "Beed... harasho." 'Harasho' is 'good,' that much everyone knows, and he laughs.

"Th-that would be so easy, I h-hate sh-shaving." She is smiling to him, and then she dives and places a open-mouth kiss on his throat. He drops his head back, giving her more access, her hands are dancing in his hair, he is grabbing handfuls of her dress on the back.

After a while it becomes clear there will be no more talking, and he pushes her back on the bed. She moans, clearly approvingly, and he starts unbuttoning the dress. It is simple, of warm brown colour in tiny white polka dots, and they pull it off her. There is a surprisingly flirty silk slip underneath, he doesn't expect such alluring undergarment on a Soviet woman and a war pilot, he is kissing her neck and brushes his hands over her breasts and stomach. There is a stripe of lace going along the neckline, and he kisses the pale radiant skin along it. There are freckles on her shoulders, and he presses his lips to them as well. She is becoming more demanding, her hands are roaming his torso, his shirt is taken off, then the vest, and he is between her legs, and she is gently biting at his shoulder.

She suddenly starts moving and shifting, insistently pushing at his shoulders, and he is so aroused and muddled by then that he is just staring at her. She is fluid and slender under his hands, she was arching into him and moaning, one of her shapely calves is still wrapped around his legs, and he cannot concentrate. He is supporting his weight on his elbows and is breathing heavily. She mumbles something grumpily, he shakes his head trying to clear his mind, and she makes another of her 'poof' sounds and pushes him off her. He is immediately terrified she has changed her mind.

She pulls at the corner of the blanket and points at the sheets. Another command, short and to the point follows, and he rolls from over the blanket. She moves into him and pulls the blanket over the two of them. He assumes it is some modesty thing, she surely isn't cold, her skin is all covered in lovely pink blush, and he wanted to see more, but he is not going to argue.

She starts shifting and moving again, and then he understands that she is undressing. The girdle, stockings, bra and underwear fly from under the ballet, and she makes a happy hum and stretches on the sheets. He is still awkwardly frozen in a semi-reclined position. The bed is narrow but he isn't touching her. She gives him an expectant look and points somewhere down under the blanket with her eyes. He nods, and his underwear and socks follow her undergarments.

With that out of the way he covers her with his body and receives a wide smile and some throaty compliments. He assumes they are compliments, since she is stroking his shoulders and chest and purring. She is quite obviously infatuated with chest hair, her small strong hands go back to it again and again, she treads fingers through it and then even claws a bit.

"Zver," that is an interesting word. He doesn't know what it means, but he thinks something rather inappropriate, judging by the salacious smirk and a raspy exhale that accompany it. The last 'r' is palatalised, she rolls it purposefully and with gusto, it is again like a purr of a giant cat, but with a bit of growl in it this time. He cocks a brow, it is so easy with her, she gives him a throaty laugh, slightly lifts her torso and nips on his ear. "Ooshi," she breathes out and licks his helix. He is losing whatever control he had.

The British Forces provide their soldiers with condoms, and he has friends among officers. He hangs off the side of the bed for a second, she uses this opportunity to bite into the back of his neck, gaining a guffaw from him, he fishes the condom out of the wallet, and then they are back on the bed. She stretches an open hand to him, he is used to doing it itself, but he obviously will not object to her hands on his cock. She deftly rolls the condom on him, her legs go around his waist, and she shifts her hips catching his tip, and he presses while she lifts her pelvis. It is a surprisingly coordinated effort, and he closes his eyes from an unadulterated pleasure.

He starts moving, restraining himself, at least while he can. He knows he is rather large, she is certainly very small. She apparently has no need in his self-control, she is moaning loudly, squeezing him with strong supple legs, pushing her hips up into him, and once she starts digging her heels into his buttocks, he starts thrusting into her forcefully. She climaxes with a shrieky scream, and he follows shortly after.

* * *

He falls on her, she makes a strangled croak like sound and weakly batters at his shoulders. He groans and rolls off her. She is lying on her back, only her head sticking out from the blanket, eyes closed, and he looks at her trying to determined her reaction to what has happened. She opens one eye, gives him a mischievous wink, and then with a slightly embarrassed giggle she pulls the blanket over her head. He uses this opportunity to clean up, making a mental note to get rid of the handkerchief he just wrapped the condom into and stuffed into his trousers' pocket. To do it he had to lie across her, she squeaked somewhere under the blanket, and he suddenly feels very jolly.

He pushes his hands rummaging and grabbing whatever he can, she is squeaking louder, and he pulls her out, her hair is sticking out around her head, and she is grinning from ear to ear.

"C-come out, you'll ch-choke there," he is feeling relaxed and playful, he knows he is not yet satisfied, and he hopes that maybe he could somehow let her know about it. He arranges her on top of him, she stacks the small fists one on another on his chest, and places his narrow chin on them. The amber eyes are brilliant, and she runs the tip of her index finger along the bridge of his nose.

"Noss," he utilises his newly acquired knowledge of Russian language, and she snorts.

"Maladetz," that suspiciously sounds like 'Well done,' and the tone is fittingly condescending, to which he retaliates by squeezing her perky backside. She is much less skittish and bashful after the first time, and he strokes the narrow silky back, and then just because he can't help it he grabs handfuls of her buttocks. The slanted eyes widen, and she makes the universal 'tsk, tsk' sound. He guffaws, and just because it is so easy with her he bucks his hips, pointedly. She squeaks something that sounds like 'kakapiat?' and stares at him. He rolls her underneath him, she doesn't seem to mind since she points at his wallet on the chair again. He only had two condoms, and suddenly he thinks it won't be enough. He has never felt like that with a woman, she is exciting and mesmerizing, maybe because of the lack of talking, or because he knows of what she is, he knows that there are no guns on their planes and that none of them served for longer than a year, and that they only have a pistol with a few bullets for themselves, in case they fall behind the enemy line, and he just wants her to have a good night. He slides down, under the blanket, she makes another croak like sound, and he places his mouth on her. He doesn't have much experience in it, but she is very much obviously enjoying his attentions. She climaxes with a scream very quickly, and squeezes his head with her thighs. He shakes it to break free, and she starts mumbling something that is clearly an apology, her whole body is shaking, and he tenderly kisses her stomach. She croaks again, and then she grabs his ears and pulls him back on her. He wonders whether he is supposed to rinse his mouth after what he just did, but she catches his mouth and suddenly her hands are on him again, unrolling the condom.

This time he takes his time, rocking his hips into her, watching her face. Pleasure is splashing in her eyes, and then she closes them. Her lips are moving in hardly audible words, the low murmur of her native tongue turns this into something more, something better, he is supporting himself on his elbows, and pushes his hands under her head, into the fiery waves of her hair, the slanted eyes fly open, and she smiles to him. They climax together, she sobs, some feverish throaty words spill from her lips, and she grabs him around his neck and presses him tightly into her.

This time she curls into a ball, waiting for him to clean up, he had only one handkerchief, and she gives him hers. There are two letters embroidered on it, and he stuffs it in his pocket as well. One looks like English 'E,' another is the Greek lambda, it is a Russian 'L.' He falls on his back and pulls her into him. She is murmuring something tender and is drawing some squiggles on his chest with her fingers. He is very sleepy, he took a train to the city through last night, and he can never sleep in trains, but he doesn't want to fall asleep.

"Wrena..." He calls, and she slightly rises and meets his eyes.

"Dzhawn," his name sounds odd on her lips, but he thinks he likes it this way more. She gently kisses his lips and puts her head on his chest. He is fighting the slumber, he doesn't want this night to end, but his lids are heavy, and then the world grows black.

* * *

He wakes up alone in the room, the suitcase is gone, he finds out they were relocated, and all he is left with is the handkerchief, he cleans it forbidding himself to think of how exactly he came to have it, and a book that she left for him on the chair over his clothes that she folded meticulously.

He finds a specialist in Russian who helps him with the book. It is a small collection of poetry of the classical Russian poet Alexander Pushkin, the equivalent of Shakespeare for Russians. Once their department in the Park receives a higher level of clearance he is asked to give up the book. He passes it into the hands of an intelligence officer, and it feels like waking up in that empty bed for the second time. The same aching sadness wraps around his heart.

When the war ends, through his friends in the intelligence he finds out that her name was Ekaterina Alexandrovna Lirina, and what he thought was 'Wrena' was an unusual contraction of her name, 'Katya' being the more common. Their regiment was transported through the city in trains, across the channel to Europe, and later to Germany, where they participated in the Vistula-Oder Offensive. The data of Russian losses in that battle is unavailable, and all John is left with is a small square of white cotton with two intricately embroidered letters of Cyrillic alphabet.

* * *

Five years after the war he receives a letter written in broken English, it has been opened and reopened by so many officers of intelligence, read and approved, there are stamps and ink stains from multiple coded markings all over it, that it takes him several hours to even decipher the letters in it.

She writes to him, and the date at the bottom of letter is scratched out but he assumes the letter is at least two years old, that she lives in a small town in Pennsylvania, where just like many of the 20,000 Russians who ended up in the States after the war she was relocated after a displaced-person camp in Austria. Her English is simplistic, and he is staring at the excessive loops and tails in her handwriting. She doesn't ask for anything, just letting him know she is alright, and then she politely expresses hope he might want to write to her back. The address on the envelope and on the letter is blacked out as well.

By then he teaches Linguistics in the University of Manchester, and it takes him another year to receive a permission to go to the States to find her. While he is struggling with the bureaucratic machine he meets up with several of his old mates from the Park, and one morning one of them drops off an envelop by his flat on campus. It has her file, John grows into a habit of staring at the small black and white photo in Soviet military uniform, and a week before he takes a plane across the Pond, another envelope arrives. In it John has a marriage license, papers for her, and there is a ring at the bottom of his suitcase. He feels like a massive idiot, but after all he does not need to even mention either the papers, or the ring when he sees her.

* * *

The town is a usual dusty factory town, he gets off the bus that brought him in it, a waitress in the diner, and they always know everything, tells him that there is indeed a Russkies redhead in the town, she lives in a small house in the poor part of the town and works at the factory like all of them.

It is an early evening, and he drinks another cup of coffee and eats another slice of the iconic apple pie, and then he walks to the house carrying the simple map drawn on the napkin by the waitress. He gets lost twice, all the narrow dusty streets seem the same, and finally he finds the small white house. He exhales sharply and knocks. There is no answer, and he starts laughing.

He sits down on a bench by the entrance and spends several hours watching life go by him. The day is hot, and he ends up taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. He is thirsty and hungry now, and he doesn't notice how he nods off.

He wakes up from a loud thud. She is standing in front of him, a bag of groceries that woke him up is near her feet on the ground, he can see splatters of cracked eggs in the dust and a can of tomato soup is making its way down the sidewalk towards the road. She is wearing a simple plaid dress, a scarf is restraining her springy curls, though several small locks have escaped and are coiling on her neck.

"Dzhawn..." She breathes out, and before he can remember any of the twenty five first sentences he thought he should say to her, she lunges ahead and presses into him. She is shorter than he remembered, he wraps his arms around her, and she is mumbling something. He could not learn any of the language, with all the anti-communist paranoia, but then he realises she is speaking English.

"You came, you came..." She is repeating the same phrase again and again, the accent is thick, and he picks her up under her arms and presses her into him. He is not sure who kisses whom first and , and he could not care less.

She suddenly jerks in his arms, and he carefully puts her down. By then his head is spinning, and he is very uncomfortable in his trousers. She grabs his hand and drags him inside. They close the door behind them, he rushes ahead again, grabbing her shoulders, seeking her mouth, and she is looking at him agape.

"You are hungry, you need dinner." He laughs loudly, it is some sort of Russian hospitality thing. He is certain it is not dinner that he needs at the moment. He pulls her into a deep kiss, she is still rigid and restrained. He lets her go, he is being presumptuous, and she leads him to the kitchen. She is fussing around and then freezes in the middle of the kitchen. "And food is on the street." She is staring at him with giant widened eyes, and he assumes she means the groceries she dropped. "I come home, you sleep on my bench. I thought it is fever." She presses a palm to her forehead and is giving him an scrutinizing look. He is leaning on the door frame, giving her room. She suddenly jumps at him, arms thrown around his neck, her lips are greedy, and she starts insistently pushing him somewhere inside the house. Kissing and touching her makes him so drunk, that he realises what's happening only when a bed cuts him under his knees. She pushes her hands into his shoulders, toppling him backwards on the sheets, and the fingers are jerking on the buttons on his waistcoat.

* * *

He is spooning her, they are cooling after the third round, and he pushes one hand under his cheek, his elbow on her pillow. The sheets are pristine, and there is the aroma of lilacs on the fabric, as well as her hair and skin, and he leans in and tenderly kisses her jaw. Her eyes are closed, but he knows she is not sleeping.

"Wrena, c-come with me h-home." The lashes twitch, and she takes a careful breath in.

"I am Bolshie," her voice is tense, "Commie. You will have trouble because me." She opens her eyes but isn't looking at him.

"I w-won't. I have p-papers for you." She slightly turns and is looking at him over her shoulder frowning. He clenches his jaw, gathers his courage and says, "We c-can get m-married, and you will be a B-british citizen."

"You want to marry with me?" She turns to face him, and there is sincere confusion in her tone, he guffaws.

"Why does it s-surprise you?" He cups her jaw and tenderly kisses her lips.

"I am not pretty. And I a Commie. And you did not see me six and half year." She is actually giving him a list of reasons, and he laughs again.

"You are v-very p-pretty, the p-prettiest girl I've ever m-met. And you are not a Commie, you will m-marry me, and you will be a nice B-british lady." She is pondering his words. "Unless you w-want to s-stay here..." He suddenly doubts. "Or you c-can g-go with me b-but live there without m-marrying me. I mean, I just w-want to h-help..." His stammer reaches the level of complete inability to talk, and she moves closer, slender arm goes around his middle, and she hides her face into his sternum.

"I want marry with you." He is stroking the back of her head, the soft curls he seem to never have forgotten under his palm, and she nuzzles his chest. "I like this hairs."

"You d-did then t-too." He likes that they have some shared memories, they have history, and now she wants to marry him. "You also w-wanted me to g-grow a b-beard." She looks up, and there is shy playfulness in her eyes.

"You can grow beard?" There is funny hopefulness in her tone, and he guffaws again.

"I c-can but I w-will not. Wh-what will I l-look like with a b-beard?" She twitches her nose pretending to ponder his question thoroughly.

"If you will have beard, you will look very good." Her small hands run on his chest, and he suspects that is the beginning of round four. "Hairs is good." He picks her under her arms and places her on top of him. She grinds her hips into him, and he gasps. She is purring, and he understands he has time only for one more question.

"Wrena, what is 'zver'?" She laughs throatily and leans to his face.

"You remembered, funny man!" He grins, grabs the back of her head and is pulling her down to his lips. "It means 'animal'... or other word… 'Beast.'" He is fine with it, and she is kissing his jaw. Maybe a beard isn't actually such a bad idea.


	86. Limes and Lemons

**A/N: This one is EPILOGUE ONE (THORIN) to _Faire and Square. _It is here, surprise!... For rating considerations :P It has part two, but after this one I'm planning to post the one for Frerin. Keep an eye for it :D**

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Thorin drags her out of the cab, she is giggling, and considering the speed with which he rushes through the lobby of the hotel, the concierge manages only 'goo' out of his 'good evening, sir, welcome to Four Seasons.' Wren has given up on walking, she feels like she is parasailing into the room, and here we are!

He pushes her inside and kicks the door closed after him. He is breathing like after that very first fight at the Faire, the sternocostal and clavicular parts of his pectoralis major are pushing at his shirt from inside, and seriously, she is in danger of the buttons popping and taking her eye out. The glacial husky irises are burning, teeth are clenched, and it's almost terrifying.

Nah, she'll be fine. Let's face it, she is properly enjoying this half sane look on his clock. More so, she might be willing to add some petrol into this forest fire. She laughs throatily and makes a step back from him. He is blindly battering the handle, his eyes roaming her body, and she realises he is trying to lock the door. She lifts her right foot as if in vriksasana pose and unclasps her sandal. Battering of his large hand intensifies. She theatrically dangles the silver strappy shoe on her index finger for a mo and then throws it aside, still balancing on another foot. And then she repeats the action. The second sandal flies through the room.

"It locks automatically, love," she purrs, and he sprints ahead, she laughs again and bolts, and she can hear the low growl when instead of her he grabs empty air. She is already turning around the corner of the door between the parlour and the bedroom of the suite. She doesn't manage to give the room proper look, when the scorching hands encircle her waist, he twirls her on one spot and… bam! Jaysus, kissing him is like downing a bottle of whisky! All but one circuit in her brain shorten. The only survivour is yelling very inappropriate suggestions.

OK, Wren loves shag. She has had plenty of it. With time with the same bloke or chick it gets even better for her, she is not liberated enough to enjoy it first time properly, but it doesn't suck. Uhem… Meaning it is decent. Good. With couple exes the first time was even fun.

All that said, she has never in her life thought she'd be that girl that is so shag crazed that she'd grab the collar of a bloke's shirt and jerk, since apparently opening the buttons takes too long. And yet… His buttons fly in all possible directions, she hears one hit something to her right, with a merry 'clink,' and then suddenly she takes to air. What the...?

Oomph! Her bum meets the bed. The plonker threw her across the room and on the bed! Oh, he'll pay for this! She pushes off the mattress, and that is one of the merits of hotel beds, they are very springy, he lunges as if diving into a pool, she jumps on her feet, and his arms are once again hugging the mixture of oxygen and nitrogen. She lands couple inches away from his hands and bounces again. Another growl ensues, she is bouncing and laughing loudly.

He rolls on the bed, it is King size, even he can spread on it in comfort, and she expects to be cut down and caught, but the bloke goes for a low blow. He jerks the shirt of and grabs his belt buckle. Oh no, you are not! Not taking this pleasure from Wrennie Leary! She likes to open her presents herself!

She jumps at him, he probably doesn't even notice the thump of her body into him, god, what a beast! Rock hard too, and she means the muscles, but, nudge nudge wink wink, that too probably! She pushes him back on the bed, pressing her palms into his shoulders. He barks a short laughter.

"Doon, laddie!" She is not very good at Scottish accent, but apparently it was fine with him. He is guffawing, and picking her up under her arms he strategically deposits her on… Oh dear. No wonder her friend from Edinburgh used the word 'banger' both for what she is sitting on and fireworks. That will be quite a bang!

She splays her hands on his chest, there is no better word for what covers it than fur, and oh, she is going to enjoy every square inch of all this, but he is apparently in a hurry. Wow, the scorching palms are on her buttocks, jaysus, it's like she is being ironed by her Nana's linen smoothers, shiver runs through her spine, and then snap! Were that her knickers?! She looks down, one end of the sad looking strip of lace is between his fingers and he pulls it from under her. Firstly, it tickles her fanny. Literally. She gasps and has to lift her pelvis a bit. Secondly, what the hell?!

"That was my favourite pair, brute!" The green lacy nothing sadly flies by an arch trajectory behind him, and she narrows her eyes. "If you ruin my dress, I'll leave this hotel in your shirt. And you will have to go barechested tomorrow." Something changes in his eyes. Bugger. He might actually enjoy that show. What's with men and chicks wearing their clothes? The blue peepers, and seriously, they are mesmerising, shift down on her dress, and she squeals covering her unassuming tits with her hands. "No jerking! No!" She tries to sound authoritative, but she is shaking from laughter, and it comes out rather shrieky. He sits up, and wow, she is herself in a good shape, but the external oblique, second and third transverse lines shift, the bulging long muscles move under the tanned skin with black hair covering the chest and going down in a wide strip, and she gasps. Long massive arms go around her. But she wanted to explore!.. To touch, taste, kiss, and she wanted to run the tip of her finger along the eyebrow! She's wanted it for like three chapters!

"Love, you need to nash," he purrs into her lips, long strong fingers already unzipping her dress. Is he seriously asking her to hurry up?!

"I am a woman, you plonker, I need foreplay! Compliments! Where is the seduction part?!" She can't keep the straight face and snorts at the end. One black eyebrow crawls up, he clearly didn't buy into a single word she was saying, and he hooks the index fingers on the straps of her dress and pulls it gently down. It falls and pools around her waist. The scorching palms lie on her shoulder blades, he starts inclining her backwards, and then his lips are on her collarbones. Her head drops back, probably the last pins are falling out of her mad hair, and then he somehow shifts, from his demanding mouth and hot breath her cognitive abilities are properly impaled, and she suddenly finds herself on her back, legs spread, and he is… Oh go sábhála Dia sinn! She twists and rolls from under his mouth on her… lady parts.

"Kecks off, Durinson!" She is kneeling in front of him, his eyes are roaming her body, and she is twisting to unclasp her bra. He jerks, probably wanting to offer assistance, but she hisses at him. She wants him inside of her! Now! He smirks, falls on his back and the black trousers following her dress are tossed aside. She is disappointed. He is wearing pants. Yeah, it makes sense, he had fancy trousers on, but still… And then she is quickly not disappointed at all, because the aforementioned offending item of clothing flies after the rest of them… She forgets her bra that is still on. Yeah, that is quite a 'muckle feck' we are having in here…

Half of her pizzazz deflates in terror. No way in hell this will fit! The awe she is experiencing is probably reflected on her face, because he opens his arms, and she crawls up to him.

"I'm not complaining, don't get me wrong," she is mumbling, trying not to stare. Impossible task, as you can imagine. "But that is… alarming..." Some daft curiosity pushes her to tap it with the tip of her index finger. The imposing appendage twitches, and she squeaks somewhere deep inside. "No, seriously, I'm okay… Um… Maybe you should lie down… I might need a wee bit more control here." She keeps the thought of 'no way in hell she is letting him poke her with that on his terms' to herself.

He rolls on his back, she climbs on him again. She is rapidly sobering up from the giddiness and properly regrets she doesn't drink. A shot of 'bad choices' would be ace right now. The hands lie on her waist, and he strokes her skin with his thumbs. She meets his eyes and gives him a shaky smile. And then she plants her hands on his chest and oh god, oh god, oh god…

Somehow her barmy noggin chooses this moment to remind her of that joke that Bri told her last week. It has to do with the length of a Scotman's… kilt. _If it's short, ye call 'im a laddie. If it's to the knees, he's m'lord. And if it's below the knees, ye call 'im a braggart!_ So, should she start addressing him 'm'lord' on regular basis now?

Also, why is she thinking about it?! There is a large, wide, hot, mind-blowing, and so very beautiful… Scot under her, she needs to concentrate. OK, where were we? Oh right. Common, Miss Fanny, you wanted it for so long, chivvy on! Just to remind herself the point of this laborious task, she rubs her sensitive parts along the length, and he closes his eyes. God, he is so beautiful… Shut up, Leary, no soppiness! Fit him in first, you can ogle him later. She quickly rolls a durex on him, she had some in her clutch, and no, she wasn't planning to end up here, and here we go.

"OK, here we go. Let's see if all that tantra yoga pays off." The blue eyes fly open, there is keen interest burning in them, and she twists her pelvis, and… _Faugh a Ballagh! _

Yeah, she is also a screamer. She has tried meditation, mindful breathing, and even biting into a pillow. Nothing ever works. She is so loud she suspects there were some banshees among her ancestors. His hips jump up, apparently he doesn't mind, and she sinks her nails into his sternocostal muscles.

"Don't you move!" She is hissing through her teeth, and he freezes. "I will already have to cancel my class tomorrow. Do not impale me for a week. I need a jiffy..." She is pranayama breathing through the sensation of being skewered with a massive… claymore, and he is softly stroking her hips. She opens her eyes and meets his.

"OK, I think I'm OK..." She shifts her hips, he makes a soft groaning sound. Yeah, she knows it's tight for him. What did he expect?! She sits up straight and draws a lemniscate with her hips. Her sister taught her this word, basically it's an eight. Or an infinity. Depending on the angle. The angle by the way is quite peculiar, his claymore has a curve. Wait, that wouldn't be a claymore then?

"What is the name of a curved sword?" Oh poop.

She did not just say that. Oh god, oh god, oh god. She is shagging with the bloke for the first time, his penis literally just entered her vagina for the first time, and she just asked him how they call a curved sword.

"Sabre. Or scimitar in Middle East." He is studying her face, her cheeks are burning like Bri's cast iron skillet. And did she mention, swoon? All these terms, pronounced in his voice… She'd be fawning if she wasn't panicking. OK, OK, it's not that bad. Maybe if she starts moving he'll forget this mishap.

"I blabber when I am nervous." Is that her talking? Sounds like her. Oh bugger. "And I'm very nervous right now. And now I'm more nervous because I am blabbering. And you are literally poking some back wall there, and I might come just now, and it'll be daft because we literally just started, and I have had three years of training in Maithuna, which is a ritual of sexual union, and I'm supposed to be an expert in postponing orgasm." Oh kill her now. He is listening very attentively. Yeah, from a random observer's point of view neither of them would look like they are mid-bonk for sure. Then she has another thought and rushes to reassure him, "It was a solo training! I didn't have a partner! It's a spiritual practice, purely through mind. No penetration." Yeah, she might as well just climb off his majestic cock and go jump into the rock jetty. Quick though painful death, and her tombstone will say _Blame her gob_.

"You are a gabby one." No shit, Sherlock. That much is obvious by now, the question is how to get out of this aggro. "And bonnie." His brushes the tips of his fingers on her stomach, and she gasps. Do you know why diamonds are so dear? Exactly, because they are rare. So are apparently his compliments. Cut through the heart no less effectively.

Oh sod it all. She grinds her hips to him, and hello, kriya nishpatti, 'mature cleansing,' when he, as Shiva, and her, as Shakti, become the one divine being, and their spiritual and physical union is consecrated. Or maybe she is just performing a proper cowgirl. It is open to interpretation, but seriously, it never felt so good! Up, up, up, and each time she is surprised that there is still some length left inside her, and with a loud wail down, his hips buck up to meet her, and _Éirinn go Brách! Ireland forever!_

She falls on him, every single out of 640 to 850, depending on the source you consult, muscles in her body is shaking. She is also making some mental mewling sounds, she has never heard anything of the sort before, but she has never had an orgasm like that either, and she also feels like her arms and legs have rebelled and in the independence referendum there were more aye's than no-thank-you's.

He rolls her underneath him, she might have an idiotic smile on her face, she doesn't give a shite, and he snogs all sense out of her. While she is still playing scabbard to his longsword. And the sword twitches. Blimey, does he fancy himself a Kapellmeister? She carefully shifts, listening to her muscles, there is soreness, but nothing criminal so far, and she wraps her legs around his hips. Some time ago Bri told her about an Irish brigade that fought in the Civil War, and Wren decides to use the saying on their banners, _Riamh Nar Dhruid O Sbairn_, as her motto. "Never retreat from the clash of spears."

He starts slowly, gradual measured roll on his hips into her, and at the apex of his movement she raspily moans, feeling the latissimus dorsi under her palms, she is pulling him into her tighter, her hands are roaming his back, and his lips close around her earlobe. She gasps, clenches him inside, and he growls. The rhythm is stable though, he is in full control of his body, no wonder, how many hours a day does he practise with his sword? Ooops, no puns intended.

It's too late, her own daft joke makes her giggle, and she tries to suppress it, but when has she ever succeeded to? He is supporting himself on his elbows and slightly shifts to look into her face. She has sunk her teeth into the bottom lip, but his calm inquisitive expression is her undoing. She snorts and feels mortified. Oh god, how does one let a bloke know that the shag is mind-blowingly good and she is not laughing at his skill?

"Um… I have puns swirling in my head… Sword and swording… And longsword… And… I'm sorry," the last phrase is a squeak, and he slightly tilts his head. He doesn't seem dischuffed though, just curious, and she exhales through rounded lips. "Please, go on." Oh why not just stuff a sock into her mouth or something?

"You are funny," he seems really chill. Is his ego that giant that a bird chin wagging while he is literally between her legs doesn't phase him out?

"I really like you." Oh sure, tell him what you think straight away, Wrennie, don't keep anything down! Seriously, the sock option is becoming increasingly more attractive. "And I want it to go well. And I'm never like this!" She is really trying to convince him here, "I mean I'm good at this! And quiet! Yes, I can keep my god shut! It's just some mental reaction..." He doesn't let her finish, warm lips press to hers, his hips rock into her, and she instinctively sinks her nails in his back. Both moan, and he starts moving. This time the thrusts are deeper and more forceful, she quickly starts lifting her pelvis off the bed to meet him, one of his knees is sliding on the sheets, he is bending his leg, so each time the angle is slightly different, and it make her wail each time, because if he has just invented it, he needs to bloody patent it! It is like you have a pet at home and every day it's a new exotic animal, like platypus or an aye-aye lemur! He is so bloody huge, and somehow his curve is a great match to her inner curve, and mamma mia!

And then his knee slides basically under her bum, pushing it up, and the overall rolling movements prop her backside higher and higher, the second knee joins, he is rising on his straight arms, smoothly and gradually, without stuttering his measured rhythm, and god, for a bloke who claims he doesn't date he surely knows what he is doing! Her legs go up and onto her shoulders, he rolls her even more, it's like he is making hosomaki, and after arranging her the way he apparently wanted, he slides his legs back straightening them, and if she is not wrong, and her cognitive activity is mighty affected at the moment, this pose is called the Snail! She is basically folded in two, he is supporting his weight on straight arms and is pounding all those ten inches plus some into her. Very considerately by the way, making sure that loud hollering she is emitting is actually the cries of pleasure and not pain in spine, not a danger with her flexibility, and also in nether regions, also not a danger, the regions have just voted for this treatment to be repeated every day, please and thank you. She has no control over the sounds she is making, but then she hears her own 'yes, yes, more, more,' apparently her subconscious, or id, or whatever it is called, basically all the layers of her consciousness are in agreement over what's happening.

She comes again, this one is met with a stream of Gaelic swears from her and a loud groan from him. Once she can think, a feeble question floats in her endorphin flooded brain how he even fits in there, she is probably cutting off his blood circulation, and then she comes again. She is so surprised that she yells, "What the hell?"

He stops. Is he bonkers?! And then she realises he is being considerate. The whole massive body is shaking from restrain, she can actually hear the teeth gritting, he opens his eyes, and asks, "Awright?" Awww, he is such a darling!

"Yes, yes, don't stop! Common! Common!" She sounds like she is cheering some competitive sport game, and he shakes his head, he apparently is a bit ticked off. Wasn't her fault! Where did the third one come from?!

He pulls his legs again, and now he is kneeling in front of her, cock still snuggly in her by the way, his hands lie on her buttocks, she is on a shoulder stand, and thank goodness for her flexibility. Which is still not the solution of all her problems, because his cock is… well, hard, and with this angle it is poking her in such an unexpected and thrilling way, that his first thrust sends her in space like Neil Armstrong could only dream of.

In case he doubts whether this battle cry was a sign of her approval, her subconsciousness decides to go all in. Which she only finds out a very long time later after, when he finally comes, growling and swearing in Scottish Gaelic, good to know she is not the only one with Shag-Tourette.

He is kneeling to the side, she pushes from his shoulders with her feet, because he might have just finished, but his sword hasn't lost its will for fight, and if this giant body falls while they are still attached, he will probably dislocate something in her pelvis. She rolls from under him, he makes a low moan like sound and falls ahead, first on his straight arms, then elbows, and then he presses his forehead into the pillows. That is a very impressive spectacle, and she is sitting on the bed staring at him. Her whole body is vibrating, she might have had orgasm number four sometime there, but she honestly can't feel some of her extremities at this stage, so she just doesn't know anymore. He doesn't seem to plan to move anytime soon, the sides and back rise in heavy ragged breaths, and she suddenly feels all mushy and enamoured, and wants to take care of the poor lambkin.

She presses knees into the bed and palms into his side and pushes him. He drops on her side, not without swiftly wrapping one long arm around her, and with a squeak she ends up on him. After a small clean up and a bit of shuffling and reorganizing limbs, she finds out that she now knows the best possible position one can have in bed. She is on top of him, like a slice of salmon on rice in nigiri, and her arms and legs are dangling off his sides. There is nice furry chest under her nose, and she nuzzles it with dedication.

"You said you loved me," his voice is lazy and rumbles underneath her. She freezes, her nose still buried into his coarse black chest hair, and the idiotic smile she had on her face is becoming permanent and probably very alarming looking. Joker would love it. Good thing the man underneath her can't see it, her nose is still pressed to his sternum.

She wonders if she suddenly starts pushing her hands and knees off the bed and crawling off him backwards like a lobster whether she'll have enough time to reach the parlour of the suite before he realises she is gone. Shite, shite, shite! How did that happen?! She assumes, it was probably after the third orgasm, when she wanted to reassure him she was enjoying what was happening. Oh god, what is she to do now?

One thing for sure, the valid options of proceeding do not include asking the next question that leaves her mouth.

"Was it in English or Gaelic?" What the sodding sod is wrong with her?! He is quiet, and she slowly peeks with one eye. He is pensively staring at the ceiling. God, he is so beautiful! If only she hadn't cocked everything up just about now... Suddenly he starts shaking, and she realises he is laughing quietly. She has never seen him laugh like that. It is a gorgeous spectacle, he has a full body laugh, and she can't see the blue irises behind the fluffy lashes.

"I don't know," he rubs his face with one large hand, the second one lies on the back of her head, and he scratches it couple times in an affectionate lazy gesture.

She is chewing on her bottom lip to keep her gob shut. Because if she opens it, that's the end. She will start blabbering, and then there is no stopping her. She will start with that it was an obvious reaction to the mind-blowing shag and the unnatural amount of orgasms she went through, and then she will say she obviously didn't mean it, that would be too early, but she really likes him, and on, and on, and then she will continue digging this verbal grave, and it'll end with her either running, or proposing to him. Probably the latter. Considering how she suddenly envisions herself in a white dress, church bells ringing, and him in a kilt, Prince Charlie jacket and a bowtie, and no, she didn't research on Pinterest what Scots wear at their weddings.

"Do all Scots wear bow ties to their wedding or normal ties too?" What. The. Sodding. Hell. Is. Wrong. With. Her?! There is a pause, and she presses her hands into the sheets. OK, she will slowly slide from under his hand, the fingers are still tangled into her hair, and then she will roll off the bed…

"My family traditionally wears burgundy cravats to match the tartan." The tone is still even and warm, and she gulps loudly.

OK, that is unacceptable. Either he is OK with her humiliating mishaps, and then he really should let her know. That would be a nice thing to do! You know, reassure the bird who is properly mortified here! Or he thinks she is a daft cow and is actually enjoying her torment, and then he might be a bit of a prick. Please, please, in the name of Rassilon and the High Council of Gallifrey, let him not be a prick! He is so perfect in everything else! She takes a deep breath in and jerkily sits up on him. He looks completely relaxed. But not his typical Easter island dummy stone face like before, he looks very chuffed. He might be smiling a bit. Yeah, it's definitely a small hint of a shadow of a glimpse of a smile. God, she is in love with him!

"I am very uncomfortable." Right, good girl Wrennie, assert your position.

"Is it the bra?" He asks politely. What?! Well, she is still wearing it, but that's not what she was talking about!

"No! It's me having no control over my gob!" He is looking at the bra. What is she supposed to do with this plonker?! "I can't shut it with you. I'm terrified here! That I'm saying all the wrong things, and you either will bolt, or you think I'm a mental overattached bint!" The glacial blue eyes finally lift from her bra and meet hers.

"I will'nae, and you ar'na." Seriously, five words?! Two contractions?! Oh bugger!

"Thorin Durinson, listen to me! I'm freaking out here!" She presses her palms into his chest and is giving him a firm stare. Not much to lose, let's face it, after she used him as Google to research swording terms mid shag and then managed to profess her feelings for him, she might as well just jump into the grave she has dug up. "You need to start using your words just a bit, or I will have a panic attack!"

He sharply sits up, blimey, his hip flexors, rectus abdominus and iliopsoas, together with tensor fasciae latae and rectus femoris must really be sterling, he is fluid and she feels like whimpering from arousal from this spectacle, and the long arms go around her. She sees a long nose in front of her, and he is seemingly studying her freckles.

"That's awright with me, eonan." The voice is triple fudge chocolate syrup, and she knows that moniker means "little bird."

"My middle name is Einin, same meaning but in Irish Gaeilge," she sounds squeaky, but her hysterics have slightly ebbed. He is kissing her shoulder, that is bloody distracting, and then she observes her bra aviate across the room behind him. What... how? Whatever.

"OK, give me something here, so I don't feel like a massive idiot, and that I might have..."

"I am happy tonight." Oh! Oh… Ohhh… OK, yeah, that works. She grabs his ears and pulls him to her lips. Sod it all, she is as well. He twists his massive body, and she is underneath him again. Fine with her. And oh, dear me, again already?!

Another durex is rolled on, and she flips him on his back. OK, this time she is going to savour her pudding. Yes, last time it was all getting to know each other, trying not to dislocate something in her while sheathing his sword, and then holding on to her dear life while he has granted her with four orgasms in a row, thank you very much, but now Wrennie wants her fun. And her way.

Since it has already been established he can last long, she starts with the very thorough cowgirl, rolling her hips and drawing letters of Hindi alphabet with them, and yeah, she can go on for hours, and inner muscles do get a lot of work out from her yoga, and he is bucking his hips and fighting for some control for a while, but then finally gives in and starts panting, and there is this delicious low hum in him, that is probably how tigers purr, if they do at all, and then she picks up her legs and crosses them in the air. There is a growl from him, and she rocks her body. _Cosmo _would tell you it requires strength, balance and is called the Balancing Act Position, but Wren decides from now on it's going to be called _Finish Your Scot!_ His hands fly up, and ta, that is actually very helpful. He intertwines their fingers, she takes a deep breath, and a pair of very strong arms rocking her really makes it ace! The angle is mind blowing, and would you look at that, a simultaneous one! Ka-boom!

She slid backwards, the last glimpse of consciousness reminded her not to bend... the claymore backwards, he hummed with somewhat grateful intonation, and now she is lying on the bed, there is a hairy leg on each side of her head, and her feet are on his chest. He picks up one, and a thumb strokes the round bone on her ankle. She rubs the sole of the other one to the furry chest.

"Never had a woman like you." She freezes mid chest rubbing, and he presses a soft kiss to the heel of her foot. What the actual…? As in amazingly flexible and breathtakingly sexy? Or slightly odd and annoyingly chatty?

"Please, feel free to elaborate on this statement," that would have been her sarcastic tone if she wasn't still all breathy and trembly after the tsunami of 'O' that just stampeded through every cell in her body.

He hums noncommittally, he is kissing her toes now, and she gives him a gentle kick into his hooter. It is a bloody sexy hooter, by the way, and then she rolls on her stomach, keeping the foot in his hand, and propping her cheek on another hand she runs her fingers along the side of his calf. Tick the box, Wren. Since that mental day, when she saw him in the tent for the first time, she made The List. Item one is half fulfilled. She is not done with the calves, she might never be, but at least she can tip-top her fingers on it, mimicking walking. There is a long white scar on it, and she runs the tip of her finger along it.

"What's it from?" Her noggin is full of some jousting, whatever it is, longswords, maybe a dramatic accident in the forge, some red hot iron bar burn, or something.

"Bike." Bugger, that is disappointing. Wait, what?! As in 'I was ten and was finally ready to give up training wheels,' or as in 'I'm even sexier than you thought because I have a motorcycle and a leather jacket.' She looks back at him over her shoulder, his eyes are squinted like a cat's, he is kissing her big toe. There are pink polka dots on purple varnish there, she made an effort.

"What brand?"

"Harley." Oh. My. God. Her ovaries might have just voted for ravishing him one more time in some complicated position! And he is tenderly biting her heel now, which sort of tells her he might be all for it too.

This time, they end up in the Butter Churner, which is somehow very much favoured in porn, but is bloody uncomfortable and plain dangerous for a chick's cervical vertebrae if the bloke isn't careful or doesn't know what he is doing. This one does, and he is very careful. She is on the shoulder stand, her legs suspended above her head parallel to the floor, and yes, the mattress would be too bouncy, and rolling off the bed in active attempts to grope and taste every inch of each other was what landed them on the floor, and he is pounding in her, his legs half bent in the knees, and you'd think a massive six foot five bloke would be a terrifying option for this position, but Wren comes again, and him considerately waiting for her to finish her a capella and drawing some tender swirls on her ankle with his tongue sort of makes her maybe a little bit more in love with him.

They are lying on the floor, she is curled into him, and she is starting to nod off. He is stroking her hair, long fingers lazily dancing in her curls, and then he shifts, everything is nicely fuzzy, and she feels him picking her up, and then she is in a warm cocoon, and the whole world is nice fresh sheets, and a feather light duvet... and Thorin. The whole world is Thorin.

"Oidhche mhath leat," he murmurs and kisses the top of her head.

"Hm?" She can hardly speak, she is not sure they are even having this conversation or it's already a dream.

"Good night, mo gràdh," that she knows. It is close enough to her native 'grà' for her to know that he apparently might be in love with her too.


	87. Part Two

**A/N: Rassilon help me, I don't know where THIS came from. Just something I quickly drafted during my bus ride to work. It's a continuation for Chapter 30 "Robin."**

* * *

**I dedicate it to Just4Me. My darling, you reminded me of this story in your latest review, and I suppose my barmy mind went "hang on a minute…" It is indeed the only time that Wren and Thorin/John definitely didn't live happily ever after (that one time in _First Time, Every Time_ is open to interpretation :D)**

* * *

**A/N#2: That is all I have, my darlings, if you happen to have IDEAS of what more I can write for these two, I'll be happy to oblige. Does anyone know any solution to this conundrum? (Please, no zombie options :D)**

* * *

The dream has the usual setting. It's always some familiar place, sometimes the cabin they spent a summer in, sometimes the honeymoon suite in that hotel on Fiji, it's never their house though, but sometimes the first flat they lived in, perhaps because it was his home, and not theirs. They were not family then, they lived there for a few short months, and then Wren started feeling sick in the mornings, and only "Wheat Thins" would help, and they quickly bought the house he comes back to every evening. that was where Tom was brought from the hospital to already.

This time John is in the yard of his parent's house, they died before he met Wren and the house was sold, she has never been in it. She is on the swings that Deadre fell off from when she was twelve and broke her arm. John is silently standing for a few seconds, watching the bare feet of his dead wife push lightly from the ground. She swings ahead, lets the wooden seat she is on carry her ahead and back couple times, and then she pushes again. He can see her pink little toes he adored so much brush at the soft dust under her feet.

"Someone is grumpy today," Wren murmurs without turning to him. He knows her eyes are closed, she is enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face. He also knows there is no sun, and there is no face, it is just a dream. Somehow the thought is as painful as it would be if he had it awake. He shortly asks himself, shouldn't the dream hurt less? Shouldn't he be sort of OK with seeing his dead wife and take it for granted? Wren turns and throws him a teasing look. She always does. "I like her." She was always fond of loaded statement like that. She'd say something like that and would wait for him to ask for clarification. Giving her a glare never worked. He is not playing this game with her. She doesn't get to have fun at his expense. She is dead. She left him alone.

"Whom?" She was also a Grammar nazi, she'd always scrunch her nose and correct him. He would say 'who' just to see this expression.

"The new girl. Robin. I like her." He heavily sits on the grass several feet away from her.

"We are not having this conversation, Wren." He wants to sound firm, he just sounds tired.

"Well, tough tits, darling," she mimics his accent, "Because while you were moping, the conversation has already started. She will be good for the kids." He is still controlling himself, but he knows he has little patience. It is the third time he has such conversation with his dead wife in his dream. He doesn't want to. It's just the figment of his imagination, which means subconsciously he has been attracted to those women, which means he is emotionally cheating on his wife, and his damn mind conjures these images to justify it, and he hates himself for it. He much prefers those other dreams. When they don't talk. When instead she moans and screams in pleasure, and just like she used to when she was alive, she mumbles his name riding the wave of the orgasm he knows she is not having. She is dead. His are real though. But he is ashamed of them too. He often wonders if there is something wrong with him. Having wet dreams at forty three is just pathetic. He would understand waking up with a hard-on and quickly finishing it, but he cums in his sleep, and then dreams continue, they snuggle in the fucking afterglow, and when he wakes up he has to deal with spots of his sheets. He is not freaking thirteen.

He sits in silence, hoping she'd give it up. She never does of course. Even when she was real she was stubborn as hell. When he didn't feel like choking her, he found it endearing. In his dreams she is even worse. She explains it this way. She says since she is dead she doesn't have to control herself now, 'less social niceties, you know,' she says, 'it is just the two of us here,' and he wonders whether he has just went crazy from grief. She is so real that sometimes he feels like buying a whole bunch of sleep aid and stay with her for as long as his body copes. But then he remembers that Tom needs to be at school by 8.30, and Unna needs a new backpack.

"You do realize that ignoring me is completely fruitless?" Her voice is teasing, but there is hidden tension in it. She doesn't like to be ignored. If she were real, that would make sense. He is all she has now. But she isn't real. She is dead, and he is just having a very nice dream. "John... Can you please look at me?" He could never say 'no' to her when she was alive. He lifts his eyes. She gives him a soft loving smile. "Darling..."

"We are not having this conversation, Wren," he repeats, he is almost growling now. She narrows her eyes at him. If she were alive, he would have backed off from this expression. She is really angry with him now.

"Do I not get a say in this?" Her voice is low. As long as it is not a hiss, he hasn't gone too far yet. But he is getting there.

"No, you do not." He is being stubborn today. She used to call him 'cantankerous.'

"And why is that? You need someone..." He doesn't let her continue, this is the end of his rope.

"Wren, enough!" That was sharp. And he should feel like an idiot. He has just barked at an element of his own subconsciousness. He isn't. He feels regretful. But he presses his lips together.

"I am your wife, John. I get a say in how you live your life. I say you need to stop grieving and coming here, I say you..."

"Shut up!" He hasn't noticed at what point he jumped on his feet. "Don't you see how fucking absurd this is?! You are telling me to sleep with someone else!"

"I'm telling you to find someone to share your life with. The children need a mother, you need a wife..." She is hissing now, this is the first time they are having an argument over this. Not their first argument in the dreams. Weirdly enough little has changed since she died and started coming in his sleep. They have squabbles, they make up, they have make-up sex. He should be worried about his sanity. He is worried that he pissed her off. And irritated. He is so bloody irritated.

"You don't get to tell me how to live outside these dreams, Wren." He knows he has gone too far as soon as he says it. They are open about the fact that she is dead and these are dreams. But he has just argued her right as his wife to meddle with his life. That has never happened before. She is slowly swinging, not pushing, it's just inertia now, the knuckles on her small strong hands on the ropes are white. She has most beautiful long fingers he has seen in his life. He misses them painfully.

"So fucking me is OK, but listening to my advice isn't..." Her voice is hollow and menacing, he swallows a lump in his throat. If he answered, he lost. He can never win in an argument with her. She has an IQ of 165 and knows every button she can press. She is also ruthless and calculative. And dead. She is dead. He is having a row with his dead wife.

Maybe he is tired, maybe he is overstressed. Maybe he is actually attracted to the new curvy blonde in the office, she is merry and light, and he hasn't had sex for five year. If one doesn't count the dream sex he is having with his wife at least couple times a week.

He just doesn't want to discuss it. Considering the circumstances he thinks his life is as good as it can be. He drops his eyes on the daisy he is twirling in his fingers. She climbs off the swings and kneels in front of him. He doesn't want to look at her. Correction, he does want to look at her, always, he can't breathe sometimes because he will never look at her again, and Tom and Unna will never see her again, but right now he just can't.

"Very well, John." This haughty cold tone is very familiar. It means he is fucked. He meets her slanted amber coloured eyes. "Here is what we are going to do. I'm going to leave now. I'm very upset with you and I don't know when or if I will come back." His body jolts, and he panics. Is his mind trying to give up this madness? "But I want you to remember three things. Firstly, Robin is allergic to pineapple, secondly, when she was three she fell in a pond near her school and almost died, they pulled her out but one of her yellow rubber boots sank, and the third thing… I want you to try to date someone. Because you can't be alone. So once you pull your head out of your ass and decide to listen to me, remember that I told you to date." He opens his mouth to ask, or beg, or yell…

… and he wakes up in his bed.

* * *

He breaks after four weeks. Without a single dream involving his deceased wife he ponders sleep aid, chemically induced coma and telling someone. None of the options seems realistically adequate, and four weeks after he had a row with his dead wife in the long time gone yard of the house of his dead parents he enters the lunch room in his office. He has never been here since Wren's funeral. He always eats in his office. All eyes are on him, and he gives them a fake half smile. That is as much from him as anybody is used to seeing.

"I forgot my lunch today." It has never happened before. Everyone starts talking at the same time, offering menus to him, someone starts a fresh pot of coffee, everyone shifts and moves, and he finds Robin with his eyes. She is very cute, slightly clumsy, lively. He knows she is probably unaware, but she is very sexy. She has an expressive mouth, when comfortable she is probably passionate. Right now she squeezed herself in the corner and pretends to be busy on her phone. Which tells him she is attracted to him. He orders and pretends to be seeking some small talk. People jump at the opportunity, he carefully steers the conversation and breaches the subject of allergies.

Robin is indeed allergic to pineapple.

Childhood memories are the next topic. It's safe, has nothing to do with wives and death, and people open up. Robin joins the conversation, she obviously feels freer now that everyone is sharing memories.

Robin indeed fell in a pond when she was at school. And the rubber boots were indeed yellow. He asked nonchalantly, she shared gleefully.

He fakes sudden food poisoning, calls the babysitter, goes in the nearest bar, it's 3 p.m., and he gets completely drunk, downing one Jameson after another. What else is one to do when his dead wife had enlightened him on the information he didn't know and that was spot on? He rents a room in a motel and continues drinking there. He calls sick the next day and buys two more bottles.

When the second bottle is half empty he finally falls asleep. The dreams are sticky, disgusting, very fuzzy, and then Wren's clear enraged voice is telling him off. He has never heard anything better.

He wakes up, vomits repeatedly in the bathroom, takes a shower, eats lunch and climbs under the blanket in the motel bed. It smells of booze and his sweat, but he closes his eyes and begs sleep to come. Sleep does, Wren doesn't.

* * *

Six months pass, she doesn't return. He lives his life just as before. If she thought he'd jump through hoops for her like a puppy, she was cruelly mistaken. He is not her boy toy, he tells himself. Marriage works both ways, he tells himself. Even if one of the spouses is sort of dead. Now that he knows that either he is clinically insane, or she is not quite dead, he is determined. He knows the control freak as she is, she won't stay away for long. Asserting her will has always been her thing. He doesn't repeat the stunt with drinking, he has children. Neither does he date or consider it. Now that he knows that there is even more to these dreams, he is going to fight for them.

Thea comes to visit, they take the kids to an amusement park, it is late April, Wren's favourite season, lilacs are in bloom, and suddenly Thea starts crying while children are on a ride. She says she just really misses Wren, and recently she says it's suddenly became harder. They talk about it, he is rubbing her back, and she sniffles.

It turns out she is pregnant. She sends him a text a week later. The second ultrasound tells her it's a girl, she wants to name her Wren. John can't find his voice to express his gratitude.

* * *

Another seven months pass, and he finds himself on top of the hill behind his house. It is as close as they have ever been to their home. She is sitting on their old picnic blanket, it was lost when they were moving into this house. She is barefoot, in a long white dress, one of those that look like curtains, all full of holes, and her fiery hair is pinned in a messy something at the back of her head. She doesn't turn to him, he can see that her shoulders are tense.

"Happy now?" Her tone is furious.

"Yes," his tone is sincere, and her shoulders start to shake.


	88. Continuation

**A/N: You wanted the Robin story continued? Here you go! I love my new job, I'm super inspired, and my muse is your b**** :D**

**A/N#2: Pick one to your taste :D **

**Based on ****your votes**** one of these will receive a continuation.**

**(Or more than one if I feel inspired :D)**

* * *

After putting their fight aside, it seems they have decided to accept the current state of affairs. At least John did. Sometimes he catches a fleeing frustrated expression on the face of his dead wife, but she doesn't say anything. She now comes almost every night, sometimes they just talk, sometimes make love. John wakes up in the morning fresh and well-rested, he sings with children on the drive to school, smiles more at work, and altogether he thinks that what he has now is more than any can hope for in widowhood. Until one day…

* * *

**Option 1:**

… a man in a stripy suit knocks at the door of his office. The man is tall, almost as tall as John, skinny, and has the most mental hair John has ever seen. The rubbish the man starts blabbering to him is even more bonkers, and John carefully pressed the security button under the table. The man is dragged out of the office, and everybody is discussing it for the rest of the day. John picks up the kids from school, they have dinner, watch cartoons, Tom complains that he is too old for _Toy Story_, John says no one ever is. _Toy Story_ was Wren's favourite cartoon and no way in hell he isn't making his kids watch it till they go to college.

He takes a shower, climbs in his bed, he bought a single one after Wren died, and stretches his tired back. The words of the weirdo from earlier that day are whirling in his head. The bloke was clearly bonkers, there was some rubbish about time and space, and a tear in the fabric of reality, and John takes measured breaths in, just like Wren used to teach his "arrogant arse," that would be her term and she would mimic his accent, and finally he falls asleep.

* * *

He is in their house. For the first time it is actually their house. It is empty too, no furniture, no pictures on the wall, even the portrait of a thoughtful pug chewing on a daisy is gone from the wall of the living room, and then he can hear Wren screaming his name somewhere on the second floor. He rushes up, she is running between the rooms, he can hear the pitter-patter of her feet, the doors are banging, she is calling him. He jerks the door to their bedroom, and her body slams into his.

"God, John, I thought you'd never come!" She is pressing into him, his nose is full of smell of lilac, he cups her face and makes her look at him.

"Wren, what?.."

"Did he reach you?! The Doctor?! Did he get to you? God, John, we have very little time, and it explains everything now, you know? We were so blind!" She is speaking with the machine gun speed, and he is staring at her.

"Wren, what the hell?"

"The Doctor! The Timelord!" He doesn't get it, is he supposed to know what she is talking about?! "Damn it, John, tell me you actually listened to him."

"I have no idea what you are talking about." He is giving her a confused look, she punches his upper arm.

"You stubborn oaf! Why do you never listen?! The temper of yours!" She sounds exasperated, and he is giving her a confused shrug. What is it all about anyway? "John, a man was to find you. Tall, lean, stripy or blue suit, fantastic hair! The Doctor! He will help us to get me back and fix the time and space paradox my death created!"

John opens his mouth but nothing but "umlftah" some out. What?!

* * *

**Option 2:**

… she doesn't come. And then the night after she doesn't come either, and he is counting days, and it's been almost two months, and he is desperate and restless, and his mobile rings at work, he sees it is from police. His first panicked thought is that something happened to children. And then nausea rises, he is painfully reminded of the day he was informed his wife's Toyota swirled on black ice and plummeted into a rapid river in Minnesota.

"Mister Thorington, it is Police Department of Dundas, Ontario. We are calling from Norfolk General Hospital..." The officer's voice is even, and John has to ask four times for him to repeat the message. And then again. And then again. And then he asks the officer to hold.

He opens the door into the analysts hall and rasps, "I need… I need..." Several people look at him, he cannot see faces, everything is swimming before his eyes. He sways and someone comes up to him.

"John..." The voice is female, and he cannot care less. A small hand picks up the phone from his hand, someone is pulling at his arm, he heavily drops on the nearest surface.

"Ask them… They need to confirm..." John cannot speak up, his voice is a coarse choked almost cough, or heave, his throat is constricted, and he hears a clear female voice.

"Hello, my name is Robin Strike, could you explain what it is about? Mister Thorington cannot speak at the moment..." She is apparently interrupted, and then John hears her gasp loudly.

* * *

They have never found Wren's body. Just a distorted bloodied car, there was so much blood no one expected her to live. It has been five years. And two months ago she woke up from her coma in the Norfolk General Hospital, near a small tourist town of Dundas, famous for its Main Street with about a hundred shops and the picturesque view on the Dundas Valley.

He arrives at the hospital, has a conversation with the doctors and two police officers, he cannot for the life of him remember later what they told him, because his hands are shaking, and then they finally show him to the room.

She is sitting by the window, and she is the skinniest he has even seen her. Or not. He cannot bloody remember what she looked like. He thinks he has seen her two months ago, and then he remembers that it was just a dream. Or not. He cannot understand anything. He is standing in the doors to a hospital room, and tears are running down his face.

She turns and stares at him. Neither can say anything.

She doesn't remember him, neither does she remember the children. Or her name. Or anything else for that matter. After almost five years in coma, she just opened eyes one day. The last two months she's been slowly regaining control over her muscles, they've been testing her intellectual abilities, her 165 IQ remained intact to the doctor's astonishment, but she has no memories. Sometimes there are flashes, they are blurry and inaccurate, and John cannot tell the doctors that they are real. All dates and facts are messed up in them, but only because what she remembers are the dreams he has been having for the last five years and everything in them is mixed up.

She remembers the places, the smells, the textures, but never him.

He is looking at her face, and she frowns.

"Are you my husband?"

"I'm John."

"And who am I?"

"You are my Wren."

* * *

He drives them home and has to stop at a gas station. He climbs out of the car and pressing the hands of his straight arms into the bonnet of the car he is throwing up. Sobbing shakes his body but he can't take it under control. He can see her giant eyes and terrified pale face through the windscreen, and he wants to reassure her, but he has nothing.

He has had a conversation with the children, Unna was two when it happened, she can hardly remember anything. She is in the second grade now, she promises she understands. Tom is pale, and his lips are pressed in a distressed line. He was five then, he knows a pale uncertain woman who is wriggling her hands by the door doesn't look much like his mother. She always laughed. She would say she just was happy. She would come up with a new game for him every day, she could bake animal shaped pancakes, and kissed his Dad all the time. Sometimes they would dance in the kitchen to whatever music would come from the radio. There was always theatrical dunking her backwards. This woman isn't even smiling.

John makes her a bed in a separate room, she has nightmares and wakes up screaming. The first five weeks are the hardest, with time he can see more and more of her old determination wake up. She pushes herself to get up when the children are getting ready to school, she then starts cooking breakfasts, the psychologist they go to three times a week suggests her to consider going back to work, but she shakes her head. She cannot remember a single pattern, she was a fabric designer. She has no interest in it either.

Every evening John prays to all gods and deities he doesn't believe in thanking them for this gift. He doesn't have his old dreams obviously, and during the day he has no wife, but all that matters is that she lives. Two months after they came home from the hospital she asks to show her old photos. She is endlessly collected, he used to be good at reading her but even he couldn't always understand what she thought or felt. Her composure was a family joke. These days are no exception. The only difference is that he used to be certain she did feel something, he can't tell now.

She has photographic memory, so she goes through photos, postcards, brochures, receipts, and old Google calendars, learning events, relatives, names. She is still not ready to see anybody, which she politely tells him. She talks to him as if he is her doctor, and from this clinical coldness he sometimes feels like breaking every object in the house, but then he remembers the five years without her, and he smiles to her softly and does what she asks.

She is highly functional. After the first two months they don't invite a nurse to stay with her anymore, the house is clean, there is always food, she goes grocery shopping, the children got used to her by then, they exchange polite goodbyes, with time a kiss to her cheek is added to the procedure. She helps them with homework, she lacks factual knowledge but she has always been an exceptionally fast learner. She studies during the day, Wikipedia and Google help, and in the evenings they have dinner and have family movie nights. There is popcorn, and he sits on the other end of their large sofa, and he is in heaven and hell at the same time. He watches her instead of the film, discreetly, she is always absorbed in the show. She is so beautiful his heart hurts. The agony and desire to touch her are excruciating, and they have nothing to do with sex. Well, at least almost never. He has erotic dreams now, but unlike her coma dreams, as he calls them, these leave him unsatisfied and restless. He is willing to pay this tiny price for having her in the house.

* * *

One day he comes home, Tom is at soccer, Unna is in a sleepover, he has half an hour to change before it's time to drive to pick up Tom, he opens the door and notices the smell of smoke. He rushes into the kitchen, everything is OK, except he finds a burnt pan in the garbage.

And he finds Wren crying desperately on the sofa in the living room, she is curled in a ball, her small hands fisted tightly. He doesn't know how much contact she would be comfortable with, previously all their touches were accidental, and she seemed completely unaffected by them.

"Wren, what is it?" He remembers to keep his tone even, just like the doctors advised.

"I burnt the dinner… I was making risotto… And I burnt onions and carrots..." Her voice is nasal, and she sniffles.

"It is alright, it is just a pan, we can order take away," he sighs with relief and makes a small step towards her. She lifts red puffy eyes at him.

"I remembered how you once tried cooking the Russian borsch that you thought was so easy to make. And the house smelt of fried onion and carrots, and then you burnt them." Their eyes are locked. "The smell reminded me, I froze in front of the stove, and burnt the vegetables… And the pan… Because I remembered how you were chasing me around the house yelling it was my fault because I wore those shorts and you could not concentrate on the soup…" Her voice is hardly audible, and his hands start to shake. She slowly sits up on the sofa. "I don't remember you, John. It is like I saw a piece of a film. I do not know the woman I saw… And you… I do not know you..." Tears are running down her cheeks again. His face is wet too. "But I want to..." There is a plea in her tone, he crosses the room in a few large steps, and she has already opened her arms. He drops on his knees in front of the sofa, her arms go around his neck.

She smells of lilac. And Wren. He bought her the same products she used to like. Her hair grew out, and it tickles his nose. He is holding her gently in his arms, his body is quaking, but he is controlling himself, he isn't squeezing her like he wants to, and she moves away, still staying in the circle of his arms. Her strong narrow palms lie on his upper arms.

"John, I..." He gives her a shaky smile, encouraging her to talk, but she chooses another way. He sees her close her eyes as if nervously, and she gently presses her lips to his. The kiss is chaste and her lips are salty, and then she moves away, "John, I think I know what to do."

* * *

**Option 3:**

… a UPS truck runs into the side of John's car when he is driving the children from school.

A year passed after that fight of theirs, John lives his double life, Wren and him are rather happy, not more than any other happily married couple, no less than those who live in the same realm. The only circumstance tarnishing their life is that Wren cannot see her children. John tells her of their every day, in details, but she always ends up crying desperately.

The truck hits them, the metal screeches, glass shatters, it is not John's fault, it is just an accident, the truck driver is not at fault either, but no one can survive this. John's car is propelled off the highway, into the trees below, and more and more hits fall on the already distorted carcass of his Toyota…

… and he wakes up with a scream. He is hyperventilating, flailing his arms, and then his hand meets the smooth skin of his wife.

"Wrennie, God, Wrennie, thank goodness… Sod it, that was a horrible nightmare..." He rasps out, and before he receives any answer, and he doesn't need any to know it's her, he pulls her into him. He knows this is not a dream, he knows this is real. She is shaking and crying, just like him.

"God, John, I had such a horrible dream… There was..."

"A car accident..."

"A car accident, and I died, and then..."

"And then I had dreams of you for five years, and then we died too..."

They stop talking together, and she slowly moves to light up the lamp. They are staring at each other, and at the next moment her nightie and his PJ bottoms are flying off. They shag twice, rolling on the bed, grabbing, biting, kissing, licking, she is moaning loudly when her third rogasm hits her, she tried to keep her voice down for the kids' sake the first two times, but this one is too large. He snarls and cums the second time. They are intertwined so tightly, it's hard to tell which one is where and he pulls the comforter over them.

"What the hell was that?" He breathes out, nuzzling her neck.

"I believe this position is called the Dolphin," she answers lazily, and he nips her skin.

"Smart arse," he exhales into her ear, and she giggles. "I meant what do you think of the dream?"

"I think we are taking a bus and commuting from now on." He slightly shifts, still holding her close, and looks into her eyes. She smiles warmly and peck his lips. "Have I ever told you I adore your eyes and am happy Tom got your colour? Such a glacial blue..."

"Concentrate, Leary, we just had a shared dream and it felt bloody real."

"Well, and now actually back to reality, does it still feel real?" She asks softly, and he gives it a thought.

"It feels more real than an average dream but less real than this," her gives her shoulder a lick and receives another giggle.

"So yeah, again. No more driving for either of us."

"No argument from me. And now a bath and another shag." He gives her a wide smile.

"No argument from me," she mimics his accent, and he guffaws.

* * *

**A/N: This one won't get a continuation, but read the next one, though the beginning will seem repetitive :D I'm having loads of fun here :D**

* * *

**Option 4:**

… a UPS truck runs into the side of John's car when he is driving the children from school.

A year passed after that fight of theirs, John lives his double life, Wren and him are rather happy, not more than any other happily married couple, no less than those who live in the same realm. The only circumstance tarnishing their life is that Wren cannot see her children. John tells her of them every day, in details, but she always ends up crying desperately.

The truck hits them, the metal screeches, glass shatters, it is not John's fault, it is just an accident, the truck driver is not at fault either, but no one can survive this. John's car is propelled off the highway, into the trees below, and more and more hits fall on the already distorted carcass of his Toyota…

… and he wakes up with a scream. He is hyperventilating, flailing his arms, and then his hand meets the smooth skin of his wife.

"Wrennie, God, Wrennie, thank goodness… Sod it, that was a horrible nightmare..." He rasps out, and before he receives any answer, and he doesn't need any to know it's her, he pulls her into him. He knows this is not a dream, he knows this is real. But something feels off. He doesn't care, he is embracing her, and he is awake.

"John, you have to stop, I need to tell you something..." He finds her mouth and is kissing her, and then slowly his mind starts perceiving the strange changes. He moves away from her, her strong hands are on his shoulders, and she speaks calmly and evenly. "John, you need to prepare yourself. Just don't panic. We will be OK, but you need to stay calm." He reacts to her intonation, he is bracing himself, but then he jerks his shoulders. His body feels funny. Foreign. Stronger. But... short?! What the fuck?!

Wren moves in the darkness, still holding his shoulder firmly, and lights up a lamp. That is not their bedside lamp, the light is different and there is a smell of some sort of oil burning in the air. His jaw slacks. Wren is wearing a long demure white night dress, which is fine, but her hair is scattered on the shoulders and on the sheets around her. What a hell is this barmy length?! There is a heavy, very much real looking necklace around her neck, opals he'd say, and then he looks around. They are in a medieval castle. The bed they are in is the most mind blowing thing he has ever seen in his life. It has a carved headboard, with a giant tree decorating it, the posts are trunks with brunches, there is a green velvet canopy, and then he finally understands why he feels so funny. He jerks the cover off himself. He is short! The width seems the same, but there is more body hair, his legs are shorter, there are more muscles, and are these scars?! And what the hell is with the braids?

"John, breathe, OK? You need to stay calm." His first thought is Tom and Unna.

"The kids?!.."

"They are alright, they got here two months ago, we were just waiting for you."

"What?!"

"This place is called Middle Earth, it is basically a parallel universe or something like that, like in those fantasy books you read..." He is staring at her, Middle earth sounds unfamiliar. And then a ridiculous thought comes, and he knows he is being a typical man, but he sneaks a peek at his wedding vegetables. Well, the size is the same, but now with the new proportions… "John, are you seriously evaluating your cock while I'm explaining to you that we are in a parallel universe, and you are a King here?" He whips his head.

"What?!"

"Yeah, your name is Thorin Oakenshield, some of Thrain, son of Thror, and you are the King of Erebor Dwarves."

"Dwarves?" That explains the proportions. She looks the same which means he is now five two like her.

"Yeah, and I'm your wife. Tom is called Thror here, Unna is weirdly enough Unna. I got here a year ago, time moves differently here." He is processing it, and then he grabs her and pulls her to him. Who cares what height they are! She is alive and near him!

"God, Wren, you are here… I thought I lost you… " Her arms are around his neck, and she sobs quietly.

"I know, darling, I am sorry. But the dreams, John, I had them too… I was stuck here and had these dreams about you… And then I realised they were the link to you, and I was worried to let you go, but then I thought you needed to live… God… And then the kids came, they told me of the car accident. And I knew you would come..." They sit embracing for a few seconds, she is crying but they seem to be happy tears, his cheeks are suspiciously wet too, and then he has a thought.

"Wait, you've been married to this bloke for a year?!" He doesn't want to sound this way, but he is growling.

"Yeah..." She chews on her bottom lip, he tells himself to control his temper, considering the circumstances, but he is quickly losing it, but she cups his face. "It was only the pretense, I had to explain everything to him, and it took a while… He thought I was crazy, thought his wife had gone mad, but then I managed to convince him. He was very understanding, and then the children joined in, so he was OK. Very sad of course, without his wife." Sincere sympathy is heard in her voice, and John feels a bit jealous. And then he remembers they are in the same bed, he is only wearing a pair of some barmy linen trousers... Wait, that actually makes his very jealous!

"So you haven't shagged him but you slept together?" That is already a roar, but seriously!.. Wren blushes furiously.

"John, please don't get angry. It is hard to explain, but he is you… Was you… It is a parallel universe, and you are the same person. It's complicated… But nothing happened! It was hard but I resisted!" She rushes to reassure, it isn't helping much. "Gandalf explained to me it was a realm anomaly, our world started leaking into theirs, I wasn't supposed to die in that car accident, and so I replaced his Wren, but when you replaced him, the worlds aligned themselves the right way again, because us being separated was an anomaly, and now we are in a pocket parallel reality, and their world has straightened up again, so he is with his Wren now, and you, I and the kids are here." John blinks. What else is there to do?! But again, wait! She was in the same bed as the cursed Dwarf!

"Wren..." There is menace in his tone, and she blushes even more furiously. "What happened through this year?"

"Um..."

* * *

**A/N: So, which one? ;)**


	89. Two Little Irish Birds

**A/N: EPILOGUE #2 to _Faire and Square_, this one is for Frerin.**

* * *

It's just Frerin's luck that he has to share the cab with the birthday boy and his hen. He'll drop them off at Bri's place, Wren left with Thorin, and knowing Thorin's habits, it's always hotels with him, the flat that she rents with Bri is empty. It is confirmed by Bri's sniggering and showing Fili the screen of her Motorola. Wren apparently texted her. Frerin leans back on his seat and closes his eyes. He just needs to survive these two making googly eyes at each other for another ten minutes, and then he'll get back to the apartments. The younglings haven't yet gotten to the best part, they are both in anticipation, and he feels like static is jumping from them unto his clothes. His head is buzzing, he had had more brew that he normally would indulge in, but Wren left with Thorin.

The cab stops, Fili is preparing to loudly argue about who pays the toll, Frerin is too drained to, he is planning to just push the birthday boy out of the cab, when he understands that Bri is surprisingly quiet. He hasn't known her for long but he knows she is never quiet. She is staring at the porch of their building, and he looks too.

Wren is sitting on the steps reading a book. He feels his jaw slack. Before he even understands it himself, he pushes the door and rushes out of the car. Either something went wrong, and he is worried, or she changed her mind. It takes him five large steps to reach her, she lifts her eyes from the page, and he sees the eyebrows jump up and the red lips part slightly. He is pished, properly arsed up, he drank twice his usual dose, basically he can stand but everything is blurry, but he thinks he can see every freckle. He sends all sense to where sun don't shine, bends down and grabs her under her arms. He expects the usual squeak, but it doesn't come. And then she licks her lips and looks at him. That is hard to misinterpret.

She tastes different, there is strange stiffness in her movements, as if she is not sure what she is doing. Something feels off. But better. He is a man, he has no time to analyse, he is busy. There is only one thought in his noggin. And it is that it feels ace. Better than before. Better than ever. She finally wakes up, arms go around his neck, and then she jumps up and hangs on him. It is indeed more convenient, with their height difference.

Fili's cough, or maybe it was a snort, makes Frerin slow down a bit, and giving her bottom lip last nibble he slightly moves away from the bird in his arms. And a second before he understands what exactly is happening, and whom he is kissing, he hears Bri's nonchalant voice.

"Hey, Lin, I thought your plane was tomorrow." Frerin is looking into the slanted amber coloured eyes that he has never seen before in his life, and he slightly lets her go, she starts sliding down him like a cat on an icy roof. "Frerin, meet Lin, Wren's sister. Lin, that would be Frerin Durinson." Apparently he still got it, since her legs do not hold her and instead of standing in front of him as he expected she slumps on the ground. How didn't he notice the lack of the feline grace in her? This one is skinny and somewhat clumsy, and somehow her thick rimmed glasses are still on her turn up nose, even after the copping off they have just performed. He thinks he likes the glasses. And the messy bun of copper curls, lack of makeup and paler skin. And the plaid shirt and baggy denim.

She is sitting on the grass and fixes her glasses in an obviously habitual gesture.

"So Wren chose your brother." The voice is slightly different, there is very little Irish accent in it, she just sounds Midwest. Neutral vowels, slight irregularity, typical for her ethnic background, his trained ear catches the tremble in r's.

He stretches his hand and helps her get up. "Frerin Durinson, pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," the tone is confident, and she is brushing twigs and leaves off her bum. She is more slender than her sister, less freckles, less time outside probably. The bum is better. He can't stop staring and closes his eyes. He did not just step into the same shite the second time around. One Leary bird flipping him off is surely enough.

"Were you going to have sex inside?" Lin's voice is flat, and Frerin's eyes fly open. He is staring at her, she is giving an appraising look to Fili and Bri. Bri is giggling, she looks comfortable with the redhead's antics, Fili isn't sure how to react. "I can find a B'n'B." Frerin's mind works fast. He doesn't want to let her go.

"There will be at least two empty bedrooms in our apartments tonight. Bri can vouch, you'll be safe there. We'll give you clean sheets." That is his idea of how to talk to a person who just nonchalantly asked a couple if they were going for a shag.

She looks at Bri, Fili's hen nods, and the redhead walks back to the porch, picks up the book she dropped when he grabbed her, and points at a small suitcase that he somehow managed to miss. Not a feminist then unlike her twin.

* * *

In a cab she is looking through the window, he is studying her jawline. The semblance is amazing, and somehow there is no way to mix them up. He was definitely blootered, but he has sobered up now. Everything is different. The line of lips is firmer, there is some sort of distant look in her eyes, as if she is solving quadratic equations in her head.

"So what do you do, Lin?"

"I am a postgrad in CIT, Astrophysics." He wasn't that much off with his equations theory. She turns and looks at him. If not for the slight blush on her cheekbones, he'd almost assume she forgot about the snog. Or didn't notice it. She does have that sort of air around her. "Wren and I talk on Skype almost every day, I know all about you." And how is one supposed to talk to a bird like that? He dated a theoretical historical grammatist in uni, she still felt more present in the moment. Lin is now studying his face.

"Is Lin short for Linnet?" He doesn't have anything better. And he fancies himself an expert in fanny faring population. Pillock. Suddenly heady blush spills on her cheeks, and she frantically blinks.

"No, it isn't." He is now scanning her face. Apparently she is embarrassed of her name, which is rather common, especially in the immigrant families, more so if there are some zealous purists among the kin, his family can be the best example. But why not lie and say that yes, Lin is short for Linnet? Her nose twitches, it is a different gesture than her sister's, he just can't stop cataloguing the differences. This one is disdainful and snooty, while Wren was just doing it when uncomfortable. Apparently, there is temper in this one.

"For what then?"

She frowns. She expected him to back off. She also looks slightly confused. It is probably her habitual state, not understanding social cues. He relaxes into his seat. She is mesmerizing. Unlike her sister she isn't judging and isn't approaching with preconceived notions. Like that he is a stud and a teuchter. She is just uncomfortable with his question.

"I don't like discussing it. People tend to google it. I prefer sharing it only after establishing comfortable relationships."

"Let's establish comfortable relationships then," he gives her a wide smile, she is still frowning. Anybody else would return the expression. People are like trained dogs. You smile, they smile back. This one is giving him an evaluating look.

She suddenly moves closer to him and places one hand on his chest. It feels like a bolt of electricity just ran through her fingers and into his chest. He gives her a soft chuckle, cups the back of her head and pulls her to his lips.

* * *

By the time they arrive to the apartments, her hair is scattered on her shoulders, she got both her hands under his shirt, and he is absolutely crazy about her skin.

"Do you need those clean sheets?" He whispers into her lips, tangling his fingers into her mane.

"Yes, I do." He respects that. "But on your bed." That he respects even more. A woman who knows what she wants. "And it's Dunlin." So she is also named after a bird. Calidris alpina. It is a rather ugly bird, grey, unassuming, no charm and cuteness of a wren. No wonder she doesn't want people to google it. "I don't like Lin either, but better than Dunlin."

"How about Dunny?" He offers, and her eyes widen. He has never seen such eyes. Everything about her feels fresh and unfamiliar. He loves it.

"I love it," that is the first smile he has seen on her lips. He will endeavour to keep it on them as much as possible.

"Good," there isn't much more to say, although he has never before said so little to woman before she enters his room and starts unbuttoning her shirt. It doesn't even come to her mind to play coy and wait for him to do it. He cups her face and kisses her firmly. The slender arms go around his middle, and for a moment she moves away, and he sees insecurity splashing in her eyes for the first time. "You are something unique, Dunny." He receives the second smile of the evening, this one is wider, and she pulls him down and to her lips by his collar.

Frerin has never kissed a woman like that. He thinks he might really, really love it.

* * *

**A/N: Remember, Math!Wren from Chapter 55 "All Tricks in the Book"? Yeah, I just needed to go back to her, she was ace. Thus, Dunny… :D**


	90. Root and Branch

**A/N: OK, this one requires ****a small explanation**** :P **

**Dopamine07****, my lovely reader, gave me a prompt asking for more stuttering and glasses wearing John (apparently one in #85 **_**Night Witches **_**stood out). And don't get me wrong I LOVE, LOVE, really LOVE prompts! So I thanked my darling reader wholeheartedly and went to work. **

**And then my barmy mind went "Yeeee, I have this awesome idea, you are going to love it!" And I was at that time making sticky buns, which always makes me very, very happy and just a wee bit loony:) So… I don't know if you will like this… *confused scratching of the head* It is very, very silly, and very, very AU. And ****Dopamine07**** also requested smut, but this story seriously has the mind of its own… :) **

**Altogether, I feel rather embarrassed by this utter silliness :) So, yeah, I blame the buns! :D**

* * *

**A/N#2: Also, reading my child Roald Dahl and his _The Giraffe and the Pelly and Me_ before bedtime re-e-eally did add to my cheerful madness :D**

* * *

"Rookie! My office! Now!" The voice of the Editor-in-Chief shook Wren out of philosophical gazing at her ficus, she scampered off her spinning chair, tripped over the wire of her desk computer, papers flew everywhere, her glasses slid from the top of her head she habitually kept them on, pencils rolled all over the floor, and she flailed her arms, grabbing the edge of the desk, feeling that every single pair of eyes in the news desk was on her. She slouched and minced into Mr. Dain's office. Everyone called him Ironfoot, joking that he ruled them with an iron foot, not even a fist, since one could always expect a nice juicy kick under one's arse if having cocked up.

The pair of burning grey peepers of Billy Dain glared at her from under bushy ginger eyebrows, and she gulped.

"So, rookie, last chance. Want a desk, get me a marmalade dropper. No dead donkeys. No churnalism. Proper scoop. Aye?" Wren nodded, hoping that was the right response. To be precise, she didn't understand anything, but there was a 50% chance she was supposed to agree. "Good. Words are quid, so chivvy on. King Thorin of Ereboria. I need a rave. As good as if we got his obit. Aye?" She nodded again, pressing her folder to the area where tits were on proper women. "Get the back from the back, and off you pop. You have till tomorrow."

Wren gulped again. She had started working in _The Moon_, the biggest tabloid in the country three months ago. Not her dream job, as you can easily understand. She was a swot, boffin, and loved only one thing in her life. Trees. She even had a tattoo of an oaktree on her right buttock. Wren loved trees. She fancied them. She was in love with them. Oh, trees… She got a degree in Arboriculture and English, because she wanted to write about trees and finally attract public's attention to the disgustingly poor state of the groves and woods in the country. Proper papers and TV channels didn't take her, because she was clear from the start that all she wanted to write about was protecting trees. And somehow Billy Dain was running by when they were politely lying to her that they would call her regarding the second interview, he looked at her and said she was hired. Maybe he was arsed up then. Most likely. Otherwise, why?! In the last three months she'd been humiliated, yelled at, ridiculed, but the worst of all she wasn't given a single chance to write about trees! Wren wasn't fond of giving up, she gave herself three months and she was just going to quit. Next week. So OK, this would be her last fiasco, and then she'd exhale with relief and start looking for a job in a greenhouse.

The back, also knows as IT Department, or to put it simply a group of dishevelled swots collecting background info for reporters gave her a thin, unimpressive folder containing the only available data on King Thorin, the monarch of some tinsy mountain country somewhere in Eastern Europe, which no one would care about if not for some barmy diamond, sapphire and golden mines they had literally in every square centimetre. Apparently you could just poke a mountain slope with a tablespoon in a random spot and a humongous gem would fall out. Who cared, thought Wren, if they had trees growing on every square centimetre of their mountain, that would be impressive!

Currently King Thorin was visiting the country with some official mission and was placed in one of the summer residences. Wren was in an almost cheerful mood. She obviously would fail this, they sent her to get into the mansion, preferably after bribing the help, and she was to get a scoop on the King. OK, A. She could never bribe anyone. She would get red and then pale, and then would flee. B. King Thorin was like that white whale of tabloid journalism. He appeared in official press releases, was sometimes caught by paparazzi, but always looked good on those photos, and literally nothing compromising was known about him. He also made one statement per visit, didn't participate in any negotiations, allowing his counsellors to do all the talking, wasn't involved with a model, was mortifyingly fit and never gave interviews. Which meant Wren had zero chance to get anywhere on this piece.

Which was totally fine with her, since all she cared about was the garden in the residence he was currently dwelling in. Once the back gave her his coordinates and a magnetic card for the back gates, 'received from an unidentified source,' Wren googled the place she was to sneak in and made a mad happy mambo around the office. She didn't even care that everyone saw it. Whatever! She was going to see the famous Rivendell Garden! It was not open for public visiting and she had heard such delicious rumours about it!

* * *

OK, the rumours were rubbish compared to the orgasmic deliciousness that she found herself in! The garden around her was so ace that she immediately decided that she wouldn't even pretend to care about her assignment. She would explore as much garden as she could before the security would catch her and throw her out. She didn't bloody care about the mansion at the background and potential scoop on some theoretically scoopable King. Apparently, according to an 'unnamed source' in the 'close circles' King Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, had a dirty secret that wouldn't allow him to appear in public. He looked fine on the paparazzi shots. Better than fine, Wren had to concede, and quickly shoo the thought out of her head. He was not exactly her type, there was sort of too much of him, six five and all that body hair… Um, no. Wren prefered leaner kind, more intellectual, she loved to have long smart conversations with men, preferably about trees. Well, only about trees, other topics kind of bored her. Well, maybe shrubs, and flowers, and drainage, and perhaps, sometimes, in rare cases fertiliser, but only compost.

But right now, in the name of Blodeuwedd, Wren was having a crisis! Around her were the most rare, most magnificent specimens she had ever seen in her life! The tall willowy Elrondus Ambiguus, Thranduilus Fabulosus, with its red berries and smooth silver foliage, Legolas Minor, its branches intertwined with the thin pliant trunk of Tauriela Odiosa. And the pale juicy leaves of Azogus Vulgaris with its menacing thorns! Oh, the Bomburra Magna! Biforium Axus, also known as Brainless Shrub! Oh and of course Bofurium Ridiculus, with its iconic two leaf blossom, open like a Russian ushanka-hat! Wren hopped and skipped, rushing from one tree to another, and after a while she just couldn't contain her enthusiasm, and with a happy laugh she twirled and twirled under the heavy opulent branches of Gandalfus Cinereus!

* * *

And then she realised she wasn't there alone. Wren froze, her face like that tarsier in the 'it's behind me, isn't it?' meme, and then she slowly turned. King Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror was standing behind her. With a coffee mug in his hand. In denim. And a tee. And a pair of thick rimmed, plastic framed glasses. He looked very non-regal. And fit. Oh, Silvanus, Protector of Forests, he was fit… Seriously, press releases didn't do him justice, neither have those paparazzi shots in shorts. In flesh he was… No words. The long hair, of the warmest silkiest dark brown, with noble silver streaks above his face, was scattered on his shoulders, and she realised he was barefoot. The day was indeed warm, and she somehow couldn't tear her eyes off his bare feet in the grass.

She then slowly lifted her eyes and swallowed the lump in her throat. His cold blue eyes were studying her, and surprisingly he was still quiet. And then she noticed the tee above the worn out comfy looking denim. It was also old, looked very soft, and she pointed at his very wide chest with her finger.

"It's the Tickle Tickle tree! You are wearing a print of its blossom! Oh, the pink and purple blossom of the Tickle Tickle tree!" Wren's voice was full of unadulterated adoration, she pressed her hands to her unimpressive chest,"The bright bell up to 6 inches in diameter! Favoured by the hummingbirds and desired by every gardener in the world, only native to your country, extremely tricky to cultivate, almost impossible to transport!" Wren was ogling the royal chest, completely unaffected by the outline of the muscles under the cotton, "Five free petals, growing out of the stalk and held on the receptacle, the unique cultivars offering additional double flowers, with more petals. Beneath the flowers you can spot the sepals," she hadn't noticed how she stepped closer and started tracing the lines with the tip of her finger on the tee, "These, they are petal-like structures that close over and protect the flower bud before it opens. Together these sepals are known as the calyx, and nothing, literally nothing can compare to the grace and the beauty of it!"

And then the understanding of in precisely how much trouble she was hit her. Wren was not too much into swearing, but sodding hell! Somehow out of her five senses her nose woke up first. The King smelled nice. There was juniper soap, considering the geology of his country, probably Juniperus Recurva var. coxii_, _also known as Cox's Juniper, some fresh spicy aftershave, his thick black beard was nicely trimmed, throat shaved. There was also coffee from his mug, and something else. Wren had a sensitive nose, bordering to hyperosmia. And she had to attest, the skin of King Thorin of Ereboria had the most majestic, fresh, earthy, spicy smell, and Wren just couldn't bring herself to stop inhaling it. Hopefully discreetly.

And then her vision let itself be known. She realised she was staring at the royal sternum, and she slowly lifted her eyes and met his. The irises were glacial blue, thick black eyebrows were hiked up impossibly high, and altogether the King looked flabberghasted. The surprisingly soft lips were slightly parted, and Wren made a slow step backwards away from him.

"Um..." By the way, her hearing was functional as well, but he was still not saying anything. "So, yeah..." Wren literally had nothing.

"Are you a g-gardener?"

A mental equivalent of 20 kilotons of TNT exploded in Wren's mind. A. The King had the sexiest voice she had ever heard in her life. Wren Leary was generally disinterested in male population. Or female for that matter. Wren loved trees. Platonically that was. People made her slightly dischuffed to be honest. And any sort of hanky-panky matters seemed rather dull. She honestly hadn't been buying into the whole sex craze around her. But this voice!..

B. The stutter! He stuttered! That explained so much! That explained no public speeches, no interviews, one short statement, probably rehearsed ad nauseam in advance! Awww, but that was so unfair, with this voice he could be the second Fidel Castro and beat his record of 7 hours and 10 minute speech in 1986 at the III Communist Party Congress in Havana. Wren knew everything about Cuba! They had the Ghost Orchid, presumed to be extinct for almost 20 years, only to recently re-materialize, near-impossible to propagate, thus extremely rare! No leaves for photosynthesis to manufacture its own food. Only to be pollinated by the giant sphinx moth and if their seeds landed on a specific moss. Marvelous! Once Wren had enough money, Cuba would be one of the first places to go to!

"I am a yellow press journalist, I was supposed to gather some scoop on you, but I only came here for the garden, and I will be fired anyroad, since I don't want this job, I am a certified Arborist and honestly all I care about are the trees, so please don't call the security just yet, and could I please have another ten minutes here, because I will literally never in my life get another chance to see such majestic garden?!" Breathing was overrated. "Ple-e-e-ease?" She folded her hands in front of her and shook them in a universal begging gesture. The King slightly tilted his head and gave her a studying look. She chewed on her bottom lip. She now knew about the stutter, she could sell it. Well, at least he could suspect her in it. To be honest, Wren didn't think it was such a big deal, if they asked her she'd say there was nothing to hide seriously, but she guessed the King was vain. Probably something to do with the honour of his people and all this rubbish. Who cared! He was not yelling for guards yet, maybe he'd let her stay for a bit more!

"You h-have t-ten minutes." Yes, yes, yes, thank you, Aja, Yoruba orisha, patron of the forest, the animals within it and herbal healers! Wren emitted a happy squeal and rushed away from the King. She had managed to see about a third of the garden by then, she had to be smart about her choices. She could see the top of the Aragornium Splendidissimus with its regal foliage from where she was, and she sprinted towards it. It had the most perfect bark, she could just run her hands over its rough, raggedy surface for hours. The problem was she didn't have hours, just ten minutes, and there was still so much to see!

* * *

She spent twelve minutes, and she had a perfect perception of time but hoped he didn't, darting around like a squirrel that nibbled on a coffee machine filter by mistake, and yes, they did that. She found Filium Aureus and Kilium Pulchellus, the two shrubs tended to grow in the proximity of each other, there was a low and thick Gloium Lienosus, and anything and everything, but she reminded herself she was on borrowed time, and sighing mournfully she dragged herself back to where the King was sitting in a gazebo sipping his coffee.

She reached him and decisively shook off her gloom. Yes, she needed to leave now, but she had seen so much! And touched! And smelled! Oh, it was simply wonderful, she was wobbly on her feet!

"Thank you, thank you, thank you so much!" She was but bobbing on one spot. "Oh, I know it probably doesn't tickle your pickle, but you can't imagine the treasures that are in this garden! All these trees! And the shrubbery! Nemestrinus help me, I've heard they have a greenhouse in the northern end of the garden with Desmodium Gyrans! It is a dancing plant!" She delivered this information like a punch line in a joke, and one of his eyebrows cocked up, "It literally dances! It reacts to the direct sunlight, warmth or vibration! It has hinges on the young leafs, so they can rotate and it literally looks like it's jamming!" Wren couldn't suppress a happy laugh, her hands flying in the air to mimic the elliptical movement of the leafs, "Darwin adored it! It was his favourite!"

The King was sitting on the bench, one ankle on the other knee, his eyes attentively watching her over the rim of his mug. Wren felt suddenly very uneasy and rocked on the heels of her feet in front of him.

"Um… So, thank you again for letting me have a look around..." Wren was starting to back off from him.

"How d-did you g-get in?"

"Oh, right, sorry," she quickly fished out the magnetic key for the back gate from her pocket and put it on the railing near him. "That's the only one, I promise."

"Not m-much of a p-promise, one from a t-tabloid rep-porter," he gave her a pointed look from under a hiked up eyebrow.

"Um, sorry about that. I'd cross my heart but I'm an atheist," she shifted between her feet.

"S-swear by the C-coral T-tree, isn't there only f-fifty of them left in the world?" Wren froze one foot in the air, and her eyes boggled. The King was giving her a mischievous half-smile. Her throat went dry.

The King of Ereboria was indeed right, the Coral Tree, Erythrina Schliebenii, with its bright red flowers and spiny trunk, occurring only in the remote forests of South-East Tanzania, had been declared extinct twice, once in 1998, but was rediscovered in 2001 in a small patch of forest. However, the forest patch was cleared to grow biofuels, and the species was feared to have gone extinct again, until it was re-rediscovered in 2011.

Wren's head swam, and she suddenly noticed his mind-blowing attractiveness. And the impish gleam hiding in the blue irises. Wren decided men didn't get any better than that and threw herself on his neck. The fact that he had previously put the mug so that it wouldn't get toppled over and that, once she deftly deposited herself on his lap, he snogged all sense out of her told her she hadn't misinterpreted his behaviour. Which had happened to her before and not once, after all people were hard to read. It was easy with plants, pollination season was easy to determine, and the readiness for it was quite obvious. In Cycas Revoluta, King Sago Palm, for example, the female flower would open when it was ready for pollination, and the male cone's 'scales' opened to reveal pollen, and they would have a sweet perfume odor. At that point, one just snapped the male cone from the center of the plant and shook it over the female. And Bob's your uncle.

Wren wrapped around the King like Pencil Yam vines, her hands wandered, and she sampled him with gusto. He tasted of coffee and almond milk he had in it, as well as agave syrup, and she wholeheartedly approved of the cocktail. The lips were soft and warm, not too experienced, and he wasn't pushy. Being a ginger and a freak Wren somehow still managed to score a decent amount of pulls in her life, and she suddenly giggled and moved away from him. A. He was still wearing his thick rimmed glasses, and they were in the way. And B. She felt she needed to ask.

"You are not too much of a wolf, are you? Not much explosive dehiscence going on in your life?" The King blinked, the glasses foggy, eyes unfocused, adorable blush above the black beard. Wren ogled him a bit. He was a cute as a Bachelor's button flower.

"I d-don't know w-what it means, I am h-horrible in b-botany, I g-googled the C-coral T-tree to impress you while you w-were away." The blush intensified, and with it Wren's 'awwww' did as well.

"Explosive dehiscence is a ballistic form of dispersal that flings seeds or spores far from the parent plant," Wren murmured into his ear. Botany talk was the best dirty talk for her, and judging by the heaving muscular chest it was working for him too. "Hura Cruepitans, the Dynamite tree, can propel its seed as far as 45 metres from the tree with the speed of 70 metres per second." Wren's lips brushed his helix, and he noticeably shivered. She carefully picked up the temples of his glasses and put them on the railing near them. The obviously short-sighted eyes blinked frantically in a vulnerable gesture, she noticed long fluffy lashes, and for the first time in her life pure lust exploded in Wren's head like a ripe fruit of Crape Myrtle. She rushed into the kiss, her hands buried in his hair, and she wiggled her pelvis on his lap, clearly signalling that her archegonium was very much in the mood to meet his antheridium.

The gazebo was lovely by the way, secluded, nicely veiled by Parthenocissus Quinquefolia_, _and the bench they were located on was very comfortable. And when it came to poses, there was no flower like the Lotus Blossom. If you know what Wren meant, wink, wink.

Good thing she wore a dress, the knickers covered with pictures of little cacti would just have to be moved aside. His zipper emitted the sound reminiscent of 'bazinga', and hello, Amorphophallus Titanum! Also known as Titan's Penis. Oh-la-la!

The King mumbled something, Wren assumed he suddenly realised she had gotten to the content of his denim already, and hooray to no pants by the way, she guessed he really just came out of the mansion with his first cuppa of the day, and before the ability to think returned to him, she quickly stroked his… spadix. Uhem. It was glorious by the way, thick and long, silky and hot, her fingers couldn't encircle it, but she made a valiant effort. And had fun on the way. Which produced a low rumbly noise somewhere inside the royal majestic chest, and he lunged ahead, groping and kissing and nipping. At some point she nibbled on his earlobe, he dropped his head back, gorgeous eyes closed, and she assumed he was gone far enough for her to attempt pollination.

"I'm on a pill," she murmured into his ear. "And clean. We really should just get it out of our system, you know? I'm certain we are both a bit tired of... self-pollination, and you look like you could use some dehiscence, to be honest." She considered her argument very convincing, but he rasped some sort of a protest again. She moved away and glared at him. She was not used to be a predator, but he was really making it difficult here. And his… stem was still insistently poking her inner thigh. Hello, someone was clearly still in the mood of pollen exchange. He mumbled something in the line of "c-can't risk a baby" and "c-caution" and even "no offense" and she sighed in disappointment. She for once was in a mindless randy mood, and the first bloke she had ever decided to simply bonk just had to be concerned with his bloodline and had a conscience. Well, damn it. Her cacti would have to stay put then.

He surprisingly wasn't letting her go though, his massive arms were wrapped around her, and he started tenderly stroking her back. She shortly hoped he would invite her in, because definitely there would be at least couple Durex in the mansion, and then he placed a small kiss on the corner of her lips.

"The T-tickle T-tickle T-tree is called Arkentree in my c-country," his voice was warm and slightly shy. "Near my c-castle there is a g-grove, I c-can smell the f-flowers every morning, at d-dawn." She wistfully sighed. That sounded like paradise. Oh, Miming, Celtic god of forests, she could just imagine the bliss, the orgasmic fragrance, the soft rustling of the silver leafs at the morning breeze… "C-come with me." She blinked, feeling rudely jerked out of her sweet fantasies, and she stared at him.

"Come with you where?" A small hope that the option of going inside and looking for a Durex was still on the table stirred in her mind.

"To Ereboria." She gaped at him, and he awkwardly shifted under her stare. And her pelvis by the way.

"As in for a tour?" She felt she was missing something. The short-sighted blue eyes roamed her face.

"F-for a s-start..." Yeah, she was totally missing something, but who cared! He invited her to Ereboria! She would see the Arkentrees! And the famous Jewel lichen! Which was so much more interesting than any jewels themselves, of course!

"Yes, yes, thousand times yes!" She was bouncing from excitement, and he winced. Oops, right, she had forgotten what was underneath her. "Sorry," she mollifying rubbed his chest. And then she decided that the offer required a bit of confirmation, "So I have your word, right? You will let me see the trees?"

"Is that all you c-care about?" He asked, studying her, and she looked at him in shock.

"What else is there to care about? One literally can't get a visa to your country, like you are guarding something there..."

"We have the m-mines..." He interrupted her, and she snorted derisively.

"Sod your mines! You have the famous Thror Lichen! It repeats the pattern of Reindeer moss, which is actually a type of shrubby lichen and grows all over the world, but yours is golden! Only growing on the rocks at the foot of your Lonely Mountain!" She grabbed his ears and peered into his eyes. "I need your word! Promise you are taking me to your Ereboria!" He suddenly smiled widely and nodded.

"I p-promise."

"Oh I'm so happy right now!" She clapped her hands and giggled. "Maybe I can find a job there! There must be at least one gardener position in the whole country, right? I wonder what the worker's visa regulations are, but I mean if you actually give me some sort of a paper!.. And I need to pack, your weather is slightly barmy..." She continued blabbering, musing on all the preparation she would need to make for the journey, and then she realised that he was pointedly kissing her neck through this. She choked at her words and stared at him. "So, there is still a chance for a shag?" Her tone was very hopeful, and he guffawed.

"Th-there is a ch-chance."

"Ace." She grinned to him happily. "Have you ever shagged an Arborist? I've never shagged a King, it'll be wicked!"

* * *

"I need to water Toby," Wren spoke thoughtfully, and the King cocked up his brow. "It's my Ficus Destruens, it was on my desk at work, well, my former work, which reminds me I still need to officially quit, but I really need to water Toby. I grew him from seed, and he has an excellent caudex base…"

"Wr-ren," the King cautioned her, and she closed her mouth with a clank of teeth. "You are g-giving me a c-complex."

"Oh, sorry, sorry, I'll concentrate now," she settled on his chest again. "Go on, you were saying that Ereboria is a monarchy, and something-something about your nephews and if you were to marry..." She yawned, but quickly covered her mouth with her hand. "Sorry, but I am always sleepy after a shag, and this one was good..." She nuzzled his chest, rubbing the tip of her nose to the chest hair with pleasure. He was warm, and she had sampled most of this already, and it was very, very good. Which gave her an idea...

"If I w-were to m-marry, my ch-children are to inherit the th-throne, b-both genders are entitled… Wr-ren, wh-what are you d-doing?"

Her lips were already on his stomach, and she was sliding down, wiggling her bum in the air, quickly disappearing under the duvet of his giant bed.

"Don't make me interrupt you, I'm listening very… very… attentively," she spoke between kisses, and she properly fancied the wide strip of black hair going down the royal tummy. "You were saying?" She had almost arrived to the desired destination, when he twisted, grabbed her under her arms and pulled her up. She was now hanging in his arms above his face.

"I'm p-proposing, impossible w-woman! P-pay attention!" The King roared, and her jaw slacked.

"But we met a week ago!" She squeaked. They did, and since then she literally had been living in this very room. His chauffeurs, super scary bloke by the way, the tattoos on the bald head and arms like the branches of Adansonia Grandidieri, drove her to her former work first and then her flat, she picked up Toby and a change of knickers and returned to the King's bed. The knickers had stayed in her purse since then. Currently his majesty was looking at her, the royal brows frowned, eyes blazing.

"D-do you want my t-trees or not?" He asked, and she quickly gave it a thought.

"Yes, yes, I want you trees!" He carefully put her on his chest. She scampered and quickly straddled him. "I'll be a lousy Queen, by the way. All I care about is the trees, so don't expect me to have tea with daft Presidents' wives and shite, approve some laws and sign treaties. Except when it comes to environmental lobbying and tree protection acts."

"F-fine with me," he nodded, and she suddenly realised how happy she was. She leaned in and snogged him, maybe even with more determination and devotion that she would sample a sekai-ichi apple, fifteen quid per apple by the way, washed with honey and branded by hand to ensure they're blemish free. The orchards where they're grown were pollinated by hand using a tiny wand.

"I do want your trees," she murmured between kisses, and then she cupped his face and smiled to him tenderly, "But I want you more." She was starting to think her life was now a bowl of Tibetan cherries, and everything was Yangshan peaches and cream!

"P-perfect," he smiled to her, gorgeous eyes squinted, and rolled her underneath him. Perfect, indeed.

* * *

**A/N: No more buns for this one :D **

**And just a small final note: all the botanical and mythical names are either real, or puns in Latin :D I had Latin in high school, and yes, I had that puffed up of upbringing :D**


	91. Picture Perfect

**A/N: This one is based on a prompt from** **kikyosux93****. As I have mentioned before, I do not feel comfortable writing about real people, especially actors, but the reader's idea of an actor and a makeup artist with certain tastes was just so delicious! **

**Not to be taken seriously :) But I don't expect anyone would :P**

* * *

_Two weeks before the official beginning of filming_

John Thorington, four times Academy nominee, twice Academy winner, endless list of television awards, the Country's Most Prominent Bachelor of the past three years, and just in general a person chuffed with how his career and life were going, thought he was very much prepared.

He was prepared for the constant interest from media. Understandable, the franchise was one of the oldest and most famous in the nerd/geek world. He had somewhat been in the fandom himself, especially in his teen years. He obviously sympathised (and OK, maybe pretended to be, a bit, in the solitude of his room, no cosplaying or convention going, thank you very much, well, OK there was one Comic-Con) with another character than the one he was now honoured to play.

When he was a skinny stuttering teen, he always wanted to be Klakh-Goon-iie-Bleeplah, one of the secondary characters of the Third Series, a medic from the race of planet Gloo, with gills and IQ of 575, with his acid filled breathing helmet (easily imitated with an empty fish tank) and sarcastic sense of humour.

Now, with his six feet five and the hench upper body, as well as considering the amount of brooding, tormented, mysterious and (suspiciously frequently) violent characters he had played in the recent years, he was offered the part of Pa-Khu, the protagonist's partner in crime, best mate and the main badass of the verse, an alien in armour so immense that even with the lightest of alloys some of the parts would have to be later added by CGI, even with John's rather impressive physical shape.

He had just finished a film about Roman gladiators, and his ribs had just healed, as well as both broken arms, and the knee was only hurting when it was rainy, and he thought he was prepared for the physical demands of the role. He had spent every bloody waking minute in a gym for the last two years! A giant three bladed sword and the bloody shield half his height looked good on the covers of the film based novels. In real life the buggers were so heavy that only vanity didn't allow him to throw them on the ground the first day and leave to his trailer whining and demanding a skinny vanilla bean soy latte.

He was also prepared for the amount of material he had to read and watch. He had seen all nine original series, and read half of the graphic novels at the time when he was still fantasizing of breathing acid and talking to cacti, but since then the franchise turned into verse, another twenty three series were added, then there was six feature films, and eleven seasons of cartoons, and god knows what else.

Since his raging, uncontrollably violent, brooding character with mysterious past (John was starting to see the bloody pattern here) was one of the protagonists of the first six series, and then was resurrected for three seasons of the TV show, as well as five seasons of animated series, John had spent every free minute since he signed the contract staring into the blue rimmed purple eyes of Pa-Khu in all possible shapes and forms and was properly hating the plonker. Even the tragic backstory, of his whole race being slaughtered by the Furios Fleet of Ablghakha'drumdrooplick was losing its Hamletian charm, and John was wistfully dreaming of doing a small independent play instead (something where he'd wear a tee on stage and talk about life, love and the character's unrealistically poor love life).

He was even prepared for the hate mail and the press accusing him of being "too attractive for our beloved big eared, ridged nosed anti-hero." He stoically withstood everything and anything, even eggs and rotten vegetable hitting the windows of the car bringing him to the production location.

He was not bloody prepared for the moment when the cast and crew finally were seated in the room of their first pre-production day, everyone was given the folder, and then the door opened, and some small figure rushed in.

She was hardly five two, skinny beyond measure, one temple shaved, the rest of the carrot coloured mane braided on the side, a nose ring, tattoo of a raspberry branch on her shoulder, she had some sort of a barmy asymmetrical little something on her upper body, with a strap on one shoulder, and a couple brushes sticking out of her hair like pins. She mumbled some apologies and squeezed her tiny self (he didn't notice much after his eyes fell on a perky little bum in a tight leather skirt) in the back row.

John Thorington, four times Academy nominee, twice Academy winner, endless list of televisions awards, the Country's Most Prominent Bachelor of the past three years, was a goner.

* * *

_First day of filming_

The bloody prosthetics were an aggro. He couldn't properly breathe through the narrow snake nostrils, while his ears were hot in the giant rubber ones. He was sort of alright with the partial loss of hearing (one of the prosthetics specialists had an mental annoying voice, and it was almost a relief, though hearing the director a wee bit better would be nice), loss of sense of smell was not much of a barney (it became one later though), but the bloody contacts were eating at his eyeballs so painfully that he withstood half an hour and then begged for mercy. While there was a vivid discussion among the prosthetics department, producers and the director which path to choose, to give up on the purple (pretty much like making Yoda pink, according to the director) or making him cry through filming, there was some noise at the background, he couldn't turn his head in the bloody cone of shame the collar of his armor was, and then he heard a happy squeal. At least he thought it was, could have been a chainsaw. He really couldn't hear very well with these elephant ears on him.

"Blimey! In the name of Rassilon, it is perfection! Fracking perfection!" The redhead from the first reading materialised before his still tearing eyes, and he remembered that she was one of the make up artists. Not the rubber and glue ones, but brushes and paint ones. Brushes were once again sticking out of the bun that she now had on her head, and she stopped in front of him, pressing her small hands with long fingers (black varnish and about a dozen of silver rings) to her chest, and then she emitted a sigh worthy of an Austen maiden. "Oh, in the name of the symbiosis of drell and hanar, you are dreamy!" She grabbed one of his hands, he bloody hated four fingered prosthetic hands, and shook it vigorously, "I'm Wren, I'm your skin decorator. Oh, you are glorious!"

She leaned in, her slanted amber coloured eyes suddenly in front of his (still feeling like he habitually dropped Tabasco into them), and then she made a disappointed 'tsk tsk' noise.

"Oh my, you are allergic, aren't you? Such a pity, his purple eyes are his main oh-la-la element," there was sheer despair in her voice, and something told him it had nothing to do with feeling sorry for his dissolving eyeballs. "Blagh, this manky blue is ruining the whole colour scheme," she was chewing at her bottom lip, studying his face, and he felt his jaw slack.

His eyes were one of his best features! Women loved them! To say nothing of how much harder it was for fair-eyed actors to perform! In theory, brown eyes worked better on camera, and yet he had gotten one of his Academy Awards for the film where the lower half of his face was perpetually covered in bandages after a horrible car accident! What did she mean by 'manky blue' for effing sake?!

She scrunched her nose in disgust and joined a small flock of other makeup artists. They were loudly discussing his 'obvious flaws,' he was used to their lack of sensitivity, but this time it stung (had probably something to do with how glorious her buttocks looked in the denim shorts today and how much thought he had given her since that day at the reading, which was just odd, he didn't even like gingers).

Eventually it was decided to try another brand of contacts, and they only hurt twice as little, and eff it, he could survive this. Especially for his new morning routine.

* * *

_Every morning for the first three weeks of filming_

The rubber, metal, plastic, and maybe even wood (no puns intended) were finally piled and arranged on him, and she would dart into the room. Chin wagging. Yeah, she talked. All the time. And a lot. Basically never closing her gob, she'd drag her trolley of paints and brushes close to his chair, and her cool fingers and fluffy brushes would start their dance on his face. He felt half of it, the rest was covered in rubber, and if you think it was causing any sort of pleasant thrill in his happy parts, you are cruelly mistaken. It was ticklish, and he was embarrassingly ticklish, the paint would dry and pull his skin, no matter how much cream would go under it, the scales she was glueing under his eyes itch, and altogether there was only one positive thing in this whole experience.

She would lean really, really close for her work, and a faint smell of lilac would tickle his nose. Maybe it wasn't that faint, but the freaking snake nose prevented him from properly breathing anyroad. She had once asked him if he had a cold he was breathing in so industriously, after which he started being more discreet. Sometimes a curl would fall out of another of her mad dos. Yeah, basically he was pining over her like he was fourteen and a wuss again.

There was a very simple explanation for his barney. He wasn't getting any bloody vibe from her whatsoever. Yeah, he might have been a 'prominent bachelor' but he was no bloody monk. He was trying to keep it low but seriously he had seen himself in the mirror. Who wouldn't shag this? So it would make sense to go for it, bonk her and be done with it. And he even envisioned it. Bloody hell, had he envisioned it repeatedly! She wasn't gay either. That was his initial assumption, and he immediately felt better. She wouldn't have been into blokes, and he'd been fine with it. Except she was. He saw her flirting with a couple of extras. Extras! What the frack (as they all said on the set)?!

No, she wasn't gay. She was into Pa-Khu.

After an hour of painting, glueing scales, painting again, powdering, dabbing him with sponges, cotton balls, and then again painting, brushes switching and moving in her fingers in a blur, she'd step back and emit yet another of her googly eyed sighs.

And she talked! Bloody hell, he so wished she'd continue talking up to the moment she was done, because he loved listening to her (given she was the first woman who wouldn't cause a migraine in him after the first fifteen minutes of a conversation, but he prefered not to dwell on this detail), and he would really love it if she didn't talk once he was in the character. Once she'd be done, she'd turn into a fangirl. And that was fracking killing him!

The screenplay of her habitual 'after makeup' routine would look like that:

WREN

Oh… In the name of Battlestar Galactica, I think I'm going to have a crisis now... (presses her long fingered hands to her cheeks) Oh… (emits a throaty low moan) The braid is really doing it for me… I can't wait when it's that part with his ceremonial unbraiding… I have to say some of the fanfics on the Holy Hair Scattering are so effing hot… (starts theatrically fanning herself) Have you read any?

JOHN

(voice muffled by the fangs extensions and the mask) No.

WREN

I'm so happy we are filming the famous De-Masking scene today! It is so sexy! And the roar… (another deep sigh) Are you doing a roar?

(He opens his mouth to answer)

(interrupting him) What am I saying?! Of course not. You'll sound grotty with all these prosthetics. Yuck. At least you don't have a squeaky voice. With a bit of computer enhancement it might even work.

Note: His desire to end himself in with one of her brushes into his eyeball is clearly splashing in his eyes.

WREN

But seriously, oh-la-la! (gesturing all over him) In the name of Old Gods, I need some solo time! I have your Sword of Hopeless Destiny near my bed, always puts me into the mood! Nudge nudge, wink, wink!.. (she sticks couple brushes into her bun) Well, see you during the break. We'll probably have to fix some of this. Break a leg!

(She disappears somewhere behind him. He has stopped trying to look at her arse the second day into filming after he scratched his throat on the collar of the armor. He might be randy, but he is not an idiot.)

* * *

_Five weeks into filming_

His frustration had reached the limit, and he went for a direct and clear assault.

"Wren, would you like to grab a coffee?" He liked this line, it was properly nonchalant and worked 97% of time. Seriously, he wasn't taking a piss, that efficient.

She was currently de-scaling his cheekbones, the little spatula in her hand moving with an astonishing speed, she in general seemed to be in a state of constant flux. She was also chewing a raspberry flavoured gum, her nose twitched right in front of him, and her mental eyes behind the thick rimmed glasses met his.

"Well, it is not a part of my job description, but since you are such a diva I can run and get you a cuppa, but only one special time, OK?" Her lashes fluttered, and he rushed to reassure her.

"No, I didn't mean you were supposed to fetch me a coffee!" He sounded ridiculous, after a day of roaring (and he truly believed that voice over or not, he had to give his best on the set) his voice broke and the damn fangs were giving him a lisp, and why the frack did he decide it was a good moment to even talk to her?!

She suddenly started laughing loudly and then (he frigging couldn't believe it!) she stuck a tongue at him.

"I'm taking a piss, John, don't get your knickers in a twist," she was still rolling with laughter, her eyes squinted and her red mouth stretched in a wide grin (seriously the mouth wasn't even supposed to seem attractive, it was too wide, and yet he was immediately tight in the codpiece of his space armour). "Thank you for the invitation, but I'm not interested. No hard feelings, yeah?"

He'd smile to her politely, but they were filming the part where his character was tortured in prison, and the prosthetics of his split upper lip with dried yellow blood didn't allow him. So he just nodded and imagined clobbering himself to the head with one of his Academy awards.

* * *

_Seven weeks into filming_

The bloody infatuation with the redhaired make-up artist didn't pass. Couple random hook-ups didn't help. They were plain unsatisfactory, and he blamed the busy schedule and lack of preparation, and not his noggin being full of certain gingers.

He went for trying to give her a sober evaluating look in order to convince himself that she was nothing special (seriously, no tits, skinny, odd angular face, skinny arse... Sodding hell, the arse... Perky, little, round, and then that curve underneath the buttocks, and below, the pair of long slender legs... Jesus...), which only led to having even more inappropriate dreams. What the sodding hell?! He was no teen to wake up with a wood and head full of fantasies of her in Leia's golden bikini. Not his fault! She mentioned she had dressed this way once for Halloween!

She mentioned a lot, to think of it... Because she just never shut up! Oddly enough with time he started answering, sharing, asking questions… What the frack was that? He was supposed to be looking for ways to bonk her and not becoming her bloody mate!

* * *

_Eleven weeks into filming_

That was fracking it! His self-control had conked out! She had just finished his makeup and propelled out of the room, seriously she never walked, it was all darting, and rushing, and prancing, and galloping, and it was a costume department meeting, the ceremonial robe of the High Council of Thatt-Ommah-Ee'ep was brought in, and the costume designers were rushing around him, with pins and cameras, and he was made to walk and turn and 'try to bend, John' (have they seen the bloody contraption?! It was basically a corset with wings!), but he had a task, and he wouldn't give up!

Thea Martin, one of the PAs for the costume peeps was the ginger's closest mate, and John went fishing for info. Which consisted of muffled, lispy asking her for help in a 'romantic matter.' Martin obviously went for it, with an 'awwww' and providing him with her mobile number. For a second he considered going for a pull here, after all she was as fit as frack, all curves, and lips, and chestnut curls, but he kept his eyes on the prize. Ginger, perky-arsed, never slowing down prize!

Thea Martin, over a cup of skinny soy latte, sadly only confirmed his suspicions. The ginger was out of his reach.

"Unless you just walk around in all the shite you film in," Martin chuckled, she apparently thought it was a mental idea, but John might have been that desperate at this stage…

* * *

_Seventeen weeks into filming…_

Wren sauntered into the changing room, dragging her trolley after her, and then froze in the doors.

He had planned everything well. It was the week they were filming him in the full armour, and he nicked the fracking purple cloak from the costume department.

OK, that was his last effort, he was bloody so spun out from drooling over her every morning, and frack it, he would feel like a plonker later! Right now he needed to try! But seriously… what did a bloke need to do?! He fracking watched all the Fifth Series to make sure he did it right! He had read bloody fanfiction for her, he was properly hoping it'd work, some of the M rated stuff irrevocably traumatised him!

The rune covered mating ribbon was arranged across his breast plate, he had unclasped the battle axe from his back and was holding it in the very pose one could see on the cover of _Pa-Khu's Heart _graphic novel, and he bared his fangs in the exact replica of the courting snarl.

Wren's jaw slacked, and a small squeak escaped her.

John Thorington, four times Academy nominee, twice Academy winner, endless list of television awards, the Country's Most Prominent Bachelor of the past three years, was a determined man. If he wanted something (and frack it, it was time to admit he had never in his life wanted anything as much as this caffeinated squirrel of a makeup artist), he'd make sure it was his.

He stepped ahead and he carefully grabbed her ear (he was surprised himself how smoothly it went), in the complete accordance with Pa-Khu's race's mating rituals, pulled (again, very carefully of course, and bloody hell, this was one adorable little ear) and she squeaked again and stepped to him. Her fit tiddle tits heaved under the vintage Star Trek tee (Mr. Spock's right ear was positioned very stimulatingly, by the way), and she dropped her head back. The red lips parted, and he wasn't the Ultimate Assassin of the Blue Emperor if that wasn't a tinsy randy moan he had just heard.

He lowered his face to her and growled into her widened brilliant eyes, "You. Me. Date. Tomorrow." A shudder ran through her ickle body, and frack him, he had extensive plans for every bloody inch of it.

"Yes, my lord..." She breathed out. And that was how we did it, on Planet Soleus 54, Cloudy Nebula of Za'zrhu!


	92. Butter My Scone

**A/N: This one is based on a prompt from ****fraueninflammen**** on Tumblr. In this one I want to celebrate the profession and the passion we share with this reader: cooking and baking! **

**It is perfect for Wren, isn't it? ;) The idea was so adorable: cheesy, baking puns based pick-up lines that are more ridiculous than sexy! :D**

* * *

**A/N: Just a reminder I'm on ****Tumblr ****(kkolmakov-thorin-ff), on ****Pinterest ****and ****Deviantart ****as kkolmakov. Some of the stuff I post there is from here, but also there are doodles and drabbles, so have a peek if you feel like it :D**

* * *

Wren was having an amazing day, to think of it the whole week had been ace. Firstly, she was promoted to the chief baker, which meant a higher salary, which was nice, but she mostly cared for the ability to choose her shifts now, as opposed to ever so often coming first to open the shop and leaving last to close it. Now she could have an extra hour of sleep in the morning, and though she was a morning person, it was wicked. And then her recipe of the cinnamon buns was published in the _Flavour Up! _magazine, and that was big! She bought an issue and sent to her Nana. There was even her photo there! She didn't look so good in it, way too pale, but who cared! And then just like a cherry on a pie, sorry for the pun, there was this whole discussion of them opening another shop in the city, and maybe, only maybe Wren would be the one in charge there. She honestly wouldn't be too cheesed off it didn't happen, but she liked the thought.

So, when she came in the morning, and put on her new uniform, and was laughing with her colleagues over cuppa, Wren was, simply put, beaming. And that was when he came in.

* * *

Well, she sort of expected that, because it was 7.14, and he always came in at 7.14. Gods, Wren had the hots for the bloke. She could count on the fingers on both hands how many times they actually spoke, and those to be honest couldn't properly be called conversations. The scenario had always been the same, he'd push the door with his shoulder, the bell would softly jingle, in one hand he held his mobile pressed to his ear, he would hum, or talk, or sometimes almost growl into it, and his voice would tickle some nerves in her nape. It was low, and velvet, and treacle, and sticky toffee, or that first forkful of Queen of Puddings just out of the oven… He would never stop talking actually, his other hand would be balancing a tower of papers and folders, and then he'd press the mobile to his shoulder with his ear, and without looking at her or the other employee serving him, he'd ask for a large coffee, black, no sugar, and a scone or a croissant, she doubted he even cared what it was, because the moment he pulled the money out of his very stylish wallet, he'd focus on his mobile again. Then he'd grab the change, tip generously, keep on talking, or listening and humming, and then he'd pick up his coffee with one hand, the pastry would be between his teeth, and he'd nod, hum to the server and leave.

Every morning, the same thing. He was gorgeous by the way. In the best possible way. Tall, probably six five or even more, or maybe it seemed so because he was so wide and hench, long dark hair, in a ponytail, which she didn't really enjoy in men, but which suit him perfectly. There was grey in the mane, and it only made him more fit, just streaks above his forehead and the temples. Bright blue eyes, wonderful even white teeth, he was all made of some warm, very masculine details, from the fluffy black lashes, striking eyebrows, and very thick black beard, to the elegant jumpers he wore, dark navy denim, and the leather bracelets.

This morning everything went the usual way, Wren hid her mug behind the coffee maker, and still smiling to her colleague who was finishing a funny story about her sprog, Wren placed his coffee in front of him, a chocolate croissant was in the bag already, and she was waiting for the till to click and open the drawer for his change, when suddenly he picked up his mobile from his ear, straightened up, and she realised that for the first time in five months he'd come every weekday morning, his eyes were focused on her.

"Excuse me, Miss, but if a bloke told you you seemed like the sweetest crumpet he'd seen in his life, would you go out with him?"

Wren felt her jaw slack. A. He delivered the line with the grumpiest expression she'd seen on a bloke's face during a pull. As if he really wasn't trying to chat her up. B. What in the name of Jam Roly-Poly was this line? It was so bad that it passed the stage of being so bad that it was good and was just bad! And C. Why would he ask her?!

Wren was a feminist. She truly believed looks didn't matter. Hers were of that sort though that didn't make most men ask her out when they'd see her for the first time. She was skinny, angular, and a ginger, though he couldn't know for sure, there was a hairnet and a bandana on her hair, but the freckles were probably rather telling. She had her share of relationships, but her long time ones would actually start after several conversations or through mutual friends.

He was studying her face, and she blushed furiously. Mostly because she'd been, maybe, a little fantasizing about him asking her out, because, let's face it, he was mind-blowingly fit and seemed pretty intelligent and not a prick. But this horrible line!

On the other hand, she had had a very good week, and in general she was a pretty chuffed person. Also, he was looking at her with this very focused expression, that she had her usual reaction to absurd situations like that. She really loved Monty Python after all. Wren burst into laughter.

"No, I wouldn't go out with a bloke who'd say something like that to me," she was still snorting uncontrollably, and added, "Sorry."

Then an even more mental thing happened. He nodded, picked up his croissant, once again pushed in between his teeth, grabbed his coffee and left, humming into his phone. As if nothing happened. Wren turned around and gave her colleagues a look that clearly asked 'Did you also see that or I have overdosed on quark?' Her colleagues were staring back at her, most faces reflecting the same puzzlement she was feeling. OK, so it did happen.

Wren assumed there was only one thing to do now. She shrugged and went to measure out Greek yogurt for pierogi dough. What else was one to do when the most deliciously looking man one had seen in their life just told one they were the sweetest crumpet? Exactly, make pierogi dough and pretend it didn't happen.

* * *

She had two days off, then there was Saturday, and he didn't come on Saturdays, then there was Sunday, and her colleagues were teasing her all day that Monday would come and she should totally be on the till to meet him with his usual black coffee, and she'd blush and hide behind the breadmakers, and then Monday came, and it was 7.14, the bell rang, and he came in.

She stood behind the till, her cheeks flaming, daft giggles from her colleagues heard behind her, and she would be properly kicking their arses after that, and he grabbed his coffee and his date bar and left. She turned around and gave them the 'I told you so' look. The incident could properly be considered a closed case.

* * *

On Tuesday he didn't pick up his coffee from the counter, moved the phone an inch away from his ear and asked, "How's this line to you? 'It's no Christmas, if I don't have you for pudding, love?'"

There was an outburst of choked coughing behind her, her colleagues were making noises that suspiciously sounded like suppressed sniggering, and all she managed was a squeaky 'Pardon?'

"As a pick up line, would 'It's no Christmas, if I don't have you for pudding'... Would it work?"

Wren felt she was going mad. He was completely nonchalant, he sounded like he was asking for her advice, and more so his phone was still mumbling near his ear! She felt like going to the fridge and sticking her head into a pail of sour cream to cool down. What in the name of Dundee cake was going on?!

"Um, no, definitely not a good line."

"Right, OK," he nodded again, and was already heading to the door with his coffee and the bar, when he turned to her and with an absent-minded half smile, completely polite but empty he threw, "Ta."

The bell rang again, Wren picked up her jaw from the floor, and left into the back to mix cheddar and asiago for cheese sticks. Seriously, at least the cheese kept it quiet.

* * *

Wednesday he only had a coffee and a Manchester tart, but on Thursday he came with 'You are as exquisite as the Waldorf pudding, will you go out with me?' Friday brought her 'You are as sweet as Eve's pudding, I'd like to meet you in Eve and Adam costumes.'

OK, in any other situation she'd already flip a bloke off and be done with it, but it properly didn't look like he was chatting her up. He'd ask what she thought of the line, receive her decisive 'nope,' nod and leave. That absolutely didn't look like a pull!

He obviously didn't show up on the weekend, and she had a day off on Monday, and then she came back on Tuesday and heard the most astonishing news. He did come the day before and asked the chick who worked instead of her whether she'd go out with a bloke who'd' say 'You can't spell Sussex Pond Pudding without 'sex.' Would you like a slice?' After she told him off he apparently stared at her for a few seconds, said 'Oh, you are not her,' apologised and left.

By 7.14 there was a pool in an icing sugar jar in the back room, everyone except Wren took wagers, she stood behind the till, feeling the eyes of her colleagues on her back, peeking through a crack in the door to the back, and he came in.

She already had his coffee on the counter, might as well, she thought, and he stared at it. There was some loud dischuffed voice in his phone, and he was humming and nodding, and then pointed at one of the vegetable and cheddar scones behind the glass with his long finger. He had absolutely gorgeous hands, long fingers, very masculine, and the most beautiful wrists. Wren put the scone in a paper bag, he grabbed it, nodded and left. She wondered if she should have put some money in the icing sugar jar as well.

* * *

She won the money the next day when he picked up his coffee, and then his phone started yelling hysterically, and he took a sip and suddenly froze in front of her.

"No… No… You can't do it, Grey! Remove the last page and let's start anew. It just wouldn't work!.." The phone kept on mumbling, and he interrupted the mysterious Grey, "I cannot guarantee the ratings, no will I be responsible for the audience reaction." He was still standing in front of her, the phone was arguing with him, and he put coffee back on the counter, "OK, wait a mo..." He lifted his bright blue eyes at her and asked, "Miss, would you enjoy such line..."

He didn't get a chance to finish as he was interrupted by… a ginger snap!

"No, no more of that!" Wren's tone was firm, and he froze with his mouth half open. "That is ridiculous! It's not funny, and seriously this is harassment. You have to stop with the hideous pick up lines!"

He blinked and then suddenly smiled to her. Jaffa cakes, the smile was brill! He excused himself to the Grey character, and then, and she could not believe it, he hung up and actually looked at her.

"I'm sorry, I have only just realised… I didn't tell you, did I?" The smile was soft, crow's feet in the corners of his eyes, and she immediately cooled down after her outburst. "I always forget whom I spoke to and whom I didn't..." It felt really odd, to have him properly concentrated on her. Odd, but not unpleasant.

"I'm sorry what?" She was feeling the red to creep on her cheeks, he was looking down at her, still smiling.

"I work on _Mates and Dates,_ the show on the telly, yeah? And we always test out lines on people around, and most people really love it, it's just sometimes I forget whom I asked permission from..." His tone was apologetic, and she exhaled with relief. Honestly, the lines were so horrible that she was now so happy he wasn't actually trying to chat her up with them! Given it meant he wasn't interested in her but it was definitely better, him not being interested in her as opposed to him turning out to be a daft prick. And the show was ace! One of her favourites! It was funny, and absurd, and the lines were definitely perfect for it!

She smiled to him, "Phew, that explains it." She mimicked wiping her forehead in relief, "And no, you didn't ask, but keep on going, now that I know what that is, it sounds like fun." He chuckled, studying her face, and she chewed on her bottom lip.

"There was this other girl here couple days ago, and I realised she didn't know what I was asking, and I now think I seemed very rude to her, could you please apologise to her for me?"

"Sure," Wren nodded, "But you can obviously do it yourself." He shifted his eyes and quickly pulled his coffee to his lips. "Oh, you don't remember what she looked like, do you?" He looked at her over the rim of his cup, and Wren suppressed a sigh. Goodness, he was fit. The blue eyes were of that marvelous bright colour, they were smiling to her over the cup, and she couldn't tear her eyes off his lips. And not a prick. Which was good news of course, less reasons to be disappointed in this world, but… So scrumptious. "I'll tell her." He nodded gratefully and opened his mouth to say something when his mobile started hollering in his pocket. He quickly excused himself, picked up the coffee and his scone, and was gone.

* * *

For the next few days he would make his usual morning visit, no pick up lines, then she had two days off, and another morning came, and it was 7.14, and… nothing. He didn't come, the bell didn't ring, and she suddenly felt gutted. Of course he had every right to change his routine, after all their shop was just the source of coffee and pastry for him, and maybe he didn't feel like it anymore…

Then she started to worry a bit, maybe he was sick, or something happened… She shooed the thoughts away, that was daft. Maybe he just wanted something different for brekkie. She turned around and went into the depth of the shop to check on the rhubarb for the pie, when the bell rang, it was 7.42, and she turned around and saw him come in. The papers and folders were there, but no mobile. He marched to the till, and she smiled to him.

"Morning," she honestly tried not to sound so happy to see him, but she was definitely failing, "Large black coffee as usual?" He was frowning slightly and nodded, and she rushed to the pot. While she was pouring, she was discreetly watching him in the glossy surface of the coffee maker. He looked tense, and she saw him rub the back of his neck. She put the cup in front of him and grabbed the tongs.

"What can I get you? I suggest blackberry and apple crumble," she sounded very cheery, and once he nodded she hid behind the box for his slice. She really should have scaled it down a bit, but the day was sunny, and he came, and wasn't somewhere in a hospital after an unfortunate accident involving lights falling on his head. Wren had vivid imagination, she had already envisioned his bandaged head and a fit nurse that he'd fall for while in the hospital, and then she'd come to give him a sponge bath, and…

"I'm John," his voice sounded strange, and she lifted her eyes at him.

"I'm Wren," it sounded a wee bit as if she was asking, but she honestly was starting to get jitters. He looked very spun out. She suddenly grinned, because she had something to cheer him up. "I've been thinking about your lines, and your show is so absurd, and really, really good by the way, so what do you think of 'If you and I have a roll, it won't be Arctic?'" His eyebrows jumped up, and she giggled, "Or 'Let me be your bombe glacee and explode in your arms, babe.'" She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, and then he exhaled sharply and spoke.

"Yes."

"Yes what?" Wren closed the box and handed it to him. He wasn't taking it, and it was now daftly suspended between the two of them.

"Yes to all these ridiculous things. If you used any of these lines on me, I'd say yes. So yes, do explode in my arms." The box fell out of her hands with an unsatisfying plop onto the counter, and he cringed, "That was horrible. Can we start again?" She was staring at him like a toddler at a bowl of Eton mess. "Hi, I'm John! Can I ask you out for coffee?" Wren blinked and suppressed a happy squeak.

"Yes, if you promise not to mention a single kind of pudding through the whole date." He guffawed and nodded.

"Agreed."


	93. Jameson and James

**This one is a bit different. Just an echo of ideas brewing in my brain these days.**

* * *

The day is as sodding cocked up as they make them. The first Jameson slides down your throat like there is no tomorrow. To be honest it would be great if there were no bloody tomorrow. Tomorrow you will have to go back to work, and your lovely colleague will be wandering the office wearing that wonderful shiner you gave the pillock couple hours ago. The prick deserved it, and even apologised afterwards, and there will be no harassment claim, but his moping pathetic self will be definitely getting on your nerves.

The busty bartender and, as you know, the owner of the pub throws the second drink your way without asking. You lift it to salute her, and it slides down just as smoothly. They don't call it water of life for nothing… The tension in the shoulders starts uncoiling, and you send the third one the same way. The first button on the jacket is popped, and you shimmy the shoulders. Sod the day, sod the work, sod the…

"Do you sing? Something tells me you do." The bartender stops in front of you and gives your chest a measuring look. You return the favour. Damn, those are glorious tits, but you know she doesn't swing this way. You asked the first time you saw her.

"Occasionally," you answer and tap the glass with your finger.

"I have a mic, and you need to let it all out, love."

Oh fuck it. You do love to sing.

* * *

They only have Etta James in the catalogue, but you don't mind. Your voice is rad for jazz and blues. "Tough Lover" and then "Make Love to You." Your jacket is gone some time after 'he is so tough he can make Venus come alive.' People are clapping, and there are approving woohoo's. Damn right, you are good! You are also pissed off, and it truly adds up to the lung capacity. And Thea the Bartender did have every reason to check out the chest. You might have been born a beanstalk but Mother Nature was generous width wise. The tight white shirt does half of the work probably.

Since you need to 'let it all out,' mid "Pretty Good Love" you pull the elastic out of the ponytail. The relief from the feeling of the hair scattering on your shoulders makes you emit what they call a throaty moan, which makes couple of people shift in the audience, but you are not here for a pull.

Of which you have to inform all those who saunter towards you when you take a break and give well deserved attention to your fifth drink. You are polite with the first five attendees, since they mind their manners, but then all scum decides to try, and you have to be slightly ruder with the sixth. The seventh received a knee in the bollocks, security drags him out, the bartender pours your sixth on the house. Damn your metabolism, you really could use some intoxication now.

* * *

"Pushover" earns you loud applause, and then since you are slightly more chill now, Dame Etta always makes you de-stress a wee bit, and the drinks have started softening up your edge, you finally notice couple faces by the tables.

And you regret it immediately.

She looks like a fae. High cheekbones, radiant pale skin, with bright orange freckles. Bright ginger hair is cut short, pixie cut, little curls are coiling at the back of the long elegant neck, and she has the sexiest shoulders you have seen. She is telling something to the bloke she is with, and her small hands are flailing. You have a thing for beautiful hands, and these are mind blowing. The fingers are super long, whole bunch of boho rings on them, nails short and black, what's there not to love? The bloke is clearly chatting her up, and she is laughing, dropping the head back. The laughter is unrestrained, and you jump off the stage.

Fuck it, the day has been cocked up from the start.

She turns and is clapping since everyone else does, and then she looks up and is watching you come up to their table. Wow, these are the most mental eyes you have ever seen! Cat like, but very narrow, almost Asian looking. There is black eyeliner, and these lashes really didn't need any mascara.

At the background Thea the Bartender starts "Trust in Me." She has a properly sexy voice, and the song is ace, and the day has been cocked up and a rejection would be just a cherry on the top, yeah?

"Can I have this dance?" You stretch your hand to the little ginger, and she blinks couple times. The turn-up nose twitches, and then the aforementioned hand lies on your palm.

* * *

She turns out to be ickle, but you could have guessed. The top of her head doesn't reach your shoulder, but somehow dancing with her works. You are having half a thought to shake off your shoes, when she chews on her bottom lip, you are having very inappropriate thoughts right now, and then she gives you a doe-eyed look, "I'm Wren."

"Jen. Jen Thorington." You don't know why you are being so formal.

"Bond? James Bond?" She asks and emits a small giggle. You give her a cocked eyebrow look. You know it looks good. The question is whether it looks good to her. "It's actually Guinevere. My parents were toff." You don't know why you are telling her this. You never tell anyone this. You must be bladdered.

"I'm still just Wren," she smiles to you widely. "And you honestly should take off these stilettos if you are planning to kiss me."

You are staring at her, and suddenly she starts marching back to her table. Pulling you after her by the hand.

* * *

She grabs her clutch from the table and throws a friendly smile to the bloke who was watching you two dance like a hawk.

"Sorry, Auggie, I need to go. I'll ring you." She is pulling some cash out of her clutch and throws it on the table.

"She probably won't," you add, and your little ginger gently swats your arm with her clutch.

"Don't be mean, Thorington. He is just a mate."

You might love her calling you Thorington. You let her lead you out of the pub, it's nippy outside, and you pull your jacket back on. She throws a look at your shoes again.

"Seriously, the stilettos will have to go. You are tall as it is." You look at the tinsy flats on her feet. What is it, size two or something?

"Or you could start wearing some yourself," you purr and pull her into yourself. She is lithe, strong, fluid and smells like lilacs.

"Don't tell me what to do, Thorington. I like to be on top."

Fine with you.

* * *

**A/N: Eva Green, my dearies, if you need a visual. There is a board on my Pinterest page. Nick: kkolmakov.**


	94. Tension, Current and Charge

**A/N My ridiculous cold doesn't let me sleep. What's the logical thing to do? Write some John + Wren fluff that has been bouncing in my head for a while :)**

* * *

Wren is late for work. That's the second time this week. Damn it. It's not her fault. Well, not fully. It's Winter, it's cold, the city is as much as buried under all this snow, and buses are late. Or don't come at all. And she doesn't drive. She is physically and mentally incapable. She is every chauvinistic stereotype about women driving contained in a small weak body. Wren swears, her foot has just slipped on a patch of ice hidden under snow. She is also pathetic in swearing, it comes out unimpressive, and she huffs air in irritation.

Her ankle boot is full of snow, and she is jumping on the other trying to pick out at least some of the cold bastard out of the top. Last time she was late because of the bus, but this time she surely could've been smarter and left her flat earlier. Instead she kept on savouring her tea, and clicking Pinterest, and now she is late.

She pushes the door of the office, and smashed into the wide and very masculine chest of none other but John Thorington. Oh the chest. Wren would like to say that his massive weight meeting her on full velocity is to blame for her breath hitching and her now panting like after a marathon, but that would be poppycock. She is lusting after her colleague. She has lusted after him after day one, and she can't do anything about it. He is gorgeous. And talented. His updates to the packet forwarding and routing, Layer 6 application control, Intrusion Protection (IPS), DNS/DHCP services and VPN connectivity firewall are a work of art. Wren is not sure what makes her want to jump him more, the noggin or the body. Computer scientists are not supposed to look like that. Six five, body of a Greek god, luscious dark ponytail, blazing blue eyes. Fanfiction worthy physique. Installing on-premise appliances with him is a torture. He wears Davidoff Adventure, Wren feels like licking his neck. That would be surprising. They are hardly even mates.

"Morning, John!" Wren pulls a smile on her face. Her magnetic card is already in her hand, and she stretches it by him towards the scanner, when the most surprising thing happens.

John Thorington, ever so calm, slightly grumpy, cold professional John Thorington emits a barmy strangled noise and jumps away from her. His left hand is fisted, tightly, the fist is giant, and the knuckles are white. And then he waves the left hand in front of her nose, in a gesture the meaning of which Wren fails to comprehend, and then he sprints by her towards the exit from the building.

Wren has to admit to a wee bit of stalking. She might be watching him over her monitor in the morning. They have early shifts together, and she has learnt his habits. Right now she is certain he is on his way to Starbucks for his Dark Roast with three shots of Espresso. What in the name of Rassilon was this spasmodic waving and a hasty retreat? Is he in need of his fix that much?

Wren shrugs, swipes her card, and takes the lift upstairs. After a proper arse-smacking from the Department Head, through which she nods mournfully, looking appropriately regretful, she goes to her desk.

Just as usual fifteen minutes later Thorington is back at his monitor, the cup with the mermaid with naked tits on the corner of the desk, and he disappears in the code for his network intrusion detection system. Wren stares a bit longer that it is appropriate. To think of it, he didn't ask if she wanted anything. He always does. She sometimes wants some Earl Grey.

Their third colleague is on vacation, so it's just the two of them in the room, and Wren just can't seem to concentrate on her work. It probably has to do with the memory of her hand on his chest, solid muscles under the soft cashmere jumper and a tee. He rows. He also plays rugby. She now can't stop thinking that there is chest hair there. She knew of course. But now she has a tactile proof. Last Summer the firm went to a corporate picnic. He wore shorts. She might have fantasies about his hairy calves. He also rolls up his sleeves a lot. She has a vibrator in her handbag, for days like that.

Her palm right now is itching. She rubs it to her denim, but it of course doesn't help. Wren sighs and decides to get a cuppa. She lifts her eyes and realizes that John Thorington, sitting at his desk across the room, isn't working. He is staring at her. He has been for a while probably. And she just caught him. Like a schoolboy.

He blushes. In her wildest dreams she wouldn't imagine he even could. There are bright red spots quickly blooming above his beard. The beard she habitually imagines biting into. There is a jaw underneath it. It is very masculine and stubborn and gets set when he is not happy with the analysis reports.

He cowardly drops his eyes at his keyboard, which obviously makes it look much worse. Now he can't pretend he actually needed something. Now it's solid that he has been staring. Wren gets up and hastily walks by him, and into the loo. There is a mirror there, and she checks her face. There is no dirt. The glasses are not askew, the orange mental hair is of course sticking out, but it always does. The freckles are still here. Wren sighs and drags herself to the kitchen.

He is standing above the sink and is greedily drinking cold water from his 'It's NOT a bug, it's a feature' mug. She knows it's cold water because it's still running from the tab. Spraying everywhere. And then he fills the mug again, and continues. Wren watches his throat move for a bit, it's her personal porn. She has developed amazing stealth skills over the three years they have been working together. She can watch him completely discreetly for hours.

"John, are you OK?" she asks, and he jolts, full bodily, and drops his mug. It falls on the floor and shatters. They are both looking at it. The water is noisily running at the background. He loudly clears his throat.

He then mumbles something that is supposed to be reassuring and leaves probably to get a mop. Wren turns off the water, shrugs again, and goes back to her desk without a cuppa. Something tells her she should leave him alone in the kitchen.

Half an hour later he is back, and his keys are starting to click. She assumes that whatever it was, it's passed. They work for a few hours, without a word exchanged. They have a chat open, and they send links and data, but that's it. That's normal, Wren wouldn't pay attention to it, were he not so bloody tense. She can feel him almost vibrate from the other side of the room. And he looks. More often than ever. More often than he thinks she notices. His eyes are on her again, then he slightly shakes his head, squirms on his chair, and goes back to work. He never squirms. He never fidgets. Wren is getting jittery.

It's lunch time, and it's either takeaway or leftovers in the fridge. Normally she'd ask, he'd give her a concise answer. Right now she isn't sure. She stares at him for a bit, trying to determine whether his mental state is back to normal, and then she plods to the kitchen. There is half a pizza from yesterday, and she puts a slice in the microwave. And then she remembers she left her mobile on the desk.

She twirls and rushes to the door. And smacks into his chest. Again. This time her nose is full of his smell. It's delicious. Her face is as much as pressed into the sweater. Her palms are splayed on it for sure.

"Fuck it, not again!" he growls, jumps back and disappears into the corridor leading to the loo. Wren is standing her hands still in the air where his chest was a second ago. She is blinking frantically. She didn't know John Thorington could say 'fuck.'

The pizza beeps in the microwave, but Wren is still as much as frozen. Another beep comes, and she pulls the cheesy triangle out. She suddenly has no appetite.

She is chewing her lunch. It tastes like cardboard. And like awkwardness. And embarrassment. It tastes like the first year in uni when they told her girls didn't do computer science. And network security even less so. Wren fixes her glasses, they always slide down, and throws the half finished slice in the bin.

John doesn't come back till the end of the break. He is not in the office, or the kitchen. His jacket is still on the hanger. She wonders if he is hiding in the loo.

He comes back once the break is over. He smells of fag. She didn't know he smoked. He looks pissed off and sits back at the desk without looking at her. That is her limit. In the half an hour of his absence she has imagined a lot. That she cocked up some code. That she's about to be made redundant and he somehow knows about it. That he somehow found out how she got accidentally arsed up at the Christmas party last year and cried in the bathroom over her unrequited feelings for him. That time only Thea from Marketing was there, and Thea is a rock, she wouldn't snitch.

Wren decides to conduct one last test. She is an analyst after all. She comes up to his desk and politely smiles.

"I'm going to the vending machine on the ground floor. Want something?" She is keeping her tone light. His hands on the keyboard twitch. They are just as sexy as the rest of him. Large, with long fingers, masculine yet narrow wrists. Wren thinks they are the best in the world. She really wants to touch, and explore, and maybe rub her cheek ot the inside of his wrist. She is clearly barmy. The hands are also warm. Very warm. There were accidents. He'd help her carry a heavy box, and their hands would brush.

"No, ta. I don't need anything..." His tone is almost enraged. He is actually gritting his teeth. That's it.

She hisses and pushes him, smacking both hands into his shoulders.

"What's your problem, Thorington?" Her voice is shrieky.

That's not how they were trained to address the interpersonal conflict in the office space. A daft looking, saccharine sweet talking chick from PR came over, and they had 'ice breaking' sessions. Through which Wren found out that John's favourite food is cheese, and then they all had to share something from their childhood. Wren couldn't shake the image of a baby John out of her head for a month after that. Or John's baby.

The PR chick would tell Wren to calmly explain to John that Wren finds his abrupt manner unsettling.

"Well?!" Wren presses her fists into the hips. He has slightly rolled away, from her push, on his desk chair, and is staring at her. His eyes are widened. "What did I do? Forgot to water your ficus? Didn't wash your mug? Buggered up your code? What's with the 'tude?"

"Nothing..." he whispers, still staring at her. His eyes are tense, pupils dilated.

"Nothing?! You said 'fuck!' And you jump away from me! What's your deal?" She steps closer and pokes his chest. Damn his chest.

He catches her hand. His palm is indeed scorching, fully enveloping hers.

"Don't touch me, Wren..." His tone is equally pleading, and irked. He is also holding her hand tightly.

"What?!" she shrieks again, and then he pulls her by the hand clasped in his, making her take a small step ahead. His body is probably scorching too. She might be imagining waves of heat coming from him. He narrows his eyes.

"I said, don't touch me..." He throws her hand away from him, pushes from the floor, rolling further away from her, jumps on his feet, and he is gone.

Wren gulps, trying to sort out her thoughts. His screen is actually blank.

He comes back an hour later and apologises. She does as well. She really can't understand why she snapped. He reassures her it's fine. His face is expressionless.

"Well, now that it's fine, and we both admitted to being tossers today..." She gives him a plastic smile, but he doesn't return it. "Are you OK?"

She steps closer to him, now more concerned for him than irritated. He is actually properly pale. She touches his sleeve, and he tenses. It's quite clear he is trying not to shy away from her. That actually stings. Wren presses her lips.

"Yeah, I'm ace..." His voice is lower than usual. On everyday basis it's all velvet and chocolate mousse. Wren likes to imagine him saying all sorts of things with that very voice. "I'm just feeling kind of manky..." He takes a deep breath in. "Sorry..."

Wren doesn't believe him. But this fake politeness of his is still better than full avoidance. She nods unconvincingly and decides just to go back to work. He is standing in front of her in the kitchen, she is that close to him. Davidoff Adventure habitually tortures her brain and fanny. She is a big girl. She knows it's not the cologne. It's him. His skin. It's hot and tanned, and Wren wants to know what it tastes like.

He is looking at the 'wash your hands' notice on the wall. To think of it, he hasn't looked at her once through his apology. She suddenly feels sad and tired and wants to go home to her cat. Guy of Gisbourne, and that's the name of the moggy, would curl on her lap and she'd tell him all about how she fancies her colleague and wants to have his babies and he doesn't even look at her.

"I'm really sorry, Wren..." John's voice is suddenly sincere and low, and he is looking down his nose at her. "I've been a wanker… It's not your fault… I mean, you couldn't know..." He freezes. He clearly understands he has just talked himself into deep shite.

"Oh, so there is something!" Wren hisses and steps closer to him again. "There is something, and it isn't my fault, and yet you are pissed off at me!"

"I'm not!" He lifts his hands defensively, as if trying to shield himself from her. Or not to let her step any closer. She wonders what exactly he finds so repulsive about her.

"Listen, John, if you still want to work with me tomorrow," her voice is a low menacing hiss, "You're going to fess up, bloody right now, or help me gods..."

"I had a dream about you!" he barks at her, and she stops in her tracks, her index finger lifted to poke his chest. He closes his eyes for a mo, and then looks at her with some strange tortured expression.

"What?" Wren's arms hang passively along her body. "What?! What?.. You had… a dream? Did I kill your dog in it or something? Are you seriously punishing me for something I did in your dream?! Are you Phoebe from _Friends_?!"

"Not that kind of dream," he mutters. Probably. He is so quiet she can't be sure she heard him right.

"What? Wha…?" She has nothing better to say. "What kind of dream then?"

He sighs. There is a martyr note to it. He clearly doesn't want to continue this conversation. He is probably asking himself why he even opened his gob. And then she gets it. Her jaw slack.

"You are avoiding me because you had a sexy dream about me?" He sighs like her Nana's St. Bernard, deeply and sadly, and is looking at the wall to their right.

Wren's reaction is her typical one to a sudden and inconceivable shock. She giggles. Muscles dance on his jaw, and he opens his mouth clearly to rebuke her, or say 'It's nothing,' or claim he needs to go to loo.

"I have them about you at least four times a week. I don't behave like a prick after them." She isn't sure if she wants to reassure him, or point out how rude he has been. His eyes fly down at her face. And the soft lips slightly open. They look soft, she actually doesn't know.

"Four times a week?" he asks. He looks utterly shocked. She decides to continue with the chill tude. What else can she do, yeah?

"It's normal. We are human. We have hormones. We are both straight, and work in the same room. We love our job. We think about it a lot. Thus, we think about each other. And sometimes it mixes in our noggins with the sex stuff, and voila!"

Do you know why she has this well-prepared speech and sounds so reasonable? Because she tells it to herself at least four times a week. He is attentively studying her, from his height. She is hardly five two. His sternum is in front of her nose. He seems less tense now. She wants to cry. Or maybe to talk about what that dream included. She wonders about his tastes. And then she realises she had just said he was straight. Maybe he isn't. That would explain the whole jumping away from her.

"Are you gay?" she blurts out.

"Wren, I have just told you I had an appropriate dream about you..." he grumbles.

"Well, if you were gay, that'd explain why you are so shocked… I mean if it's your first one about a chick..."

"I am not. And it's not," he interrupts her in the same dischuffed tone. Her face drops. So it's just her.

"Oh… I see… Well, like I said even if you don't see me as a woman, it still makes sense..."

"I do," he deadpans. Wren's mind quickly rewinds. Oh…

"Oh?"

"I just didn't realise before how much… And now I look at you, and remember… I mean, I know it wasn't real, but..."

"Was I good?" Wren asks, sincerely interested, and he chokes on his mumbling.

Their eyes meet. Somehow she has only just realised that his eyes are warm. And emotional. And have been like that since morning. And he wasn't pissed off. He was probably fighting a hard-on. At least she really, really hopes he was. And he is now looking at her like she is the bloody best thing he has seen in his life.

"So, was I good?" she is now purring. And makes a step ahead. And places her hand on his chest. She is 99.6% sure that now she can.

"You were fucking mind-blowing…" His voice is raspy, and it rumbles somewhere deep in his throat, and she grabs the back of his neck, stretching up, and pulls him to her lips.

His lips are indeed soft. And fucking mind-blowing. She has never had better. He is skillful, and he tastes amazing. The long arms go around her, and then he picks her up and seats her on the counter gently. He is right, this is much more convenient. She is too small. She pushes her hands into his curls, messing the ponytail.

"What if I don't measure up to your dream?" she mumbles while he is kissing her neck. She doesn't give a shit to be honest. She just wants him in her bed. Now.

"You're already better..." He murmurs and slides his tongue along her throat. She has to admit now. He has amazing verbal skills. All puns intended.

"There are cameras here..." She decides to remind him. His lips freeze on her skin. He has pulled the collar of her jumper and now the tip of his long nose is pressed into the muscle between her neck and shoulder.

"Bugger..." He is still immobile, and she wonders if when randy he thinks slower. Generally he is one of the smartest blokes she knows.

"But there are none in the broom closet," she offers. He straightens up and looks at her. And then he smiles to her widely.

"Wren, I was thinking more like a dinner, a film, and then your place or mine… I was going to... you know..."

"Woo me?" She is smiling back.

"Yeah… I mean, it's not a one-off..."

"How about the broom closet, and you can pick me up after work and carry my schoolbag home?" She is already pulling the hem of his jumper up. She is quite sure about his answer.

He picks her up under her arse and carries her towards the closet.

"And then I'm buying you dinner..."

"Poppycock, Thorington!" Wren finally can reach and bite into the jaw. It's a google times better than she imagined. "We are going to your place, and we are cooking the dinner together."

"Fair enough." He walks into the dark closer and closes the door behind him with a kick. "But I might shag you on the kitchen counter first."

"Fair enough."


	95. Babysitter

**A/N: I'm so nervous before my book launch party/reading/book signing on Tuesday that all I can write is these romantic cliches. Aaaaahhhhhhhh!**

* * *

John liked his new secretary. She was efficient, knowledgeable and quiet. John didn't like noisy employees. Since his secretary of many year Mrs. Perkins had retired, John had changed three in a course of two months. Wren Leary was clearly here to stay. He couldn't find a single flaw in her work.

The first time he even thought of her as a person of the opposite sex was when his partner in the firm asked whether she was single. Bofurson was a dog, a good natured one, but still a dog. There were of course no harassment claims and he tried to keep it out of the workplace, but his exploits were well-known. John told him to stuff this idea where the sun don't shine. John needed Miss Leary where she was. Meaning, he needed her perfectly articulate letters and his schedule suddenly making sense, even better than with Mrs. Perkins.

"Don's get your knickers in a twist, Thorington," Bofurson drew out in his Mick accent. "Y'know me, and my hankerin' for redheads." Jimmy was exaggeratingly rolling his r's, and John threw him a glare. He wouldn't have been able to tell before this ridiculous conversation with Jimmy, but indeed Miss Leary was a ginger.

"Sod off, Bofurson," John pointed at his door, and Jimmy theatrically sighing slid off John's desk he had tucked himself on, in his usual relaxed manner, and marched to the door.

"You are breaking my heart, Johnny boyo."

"Cock up my secretary, and I'll break your face," John answered in their usual banter, and Jimmy grinned from year to year.

"Be it your way, but you are paying for drinks on Saturday." The accent was almost gone, which meant time for games was over.

Thorington, Bofurson &amp; Balinson was a large law freight company, offering multi-modal solutions across the world. John loved his work, and it constituted for 90% of his life. There was his sister and nephews of course, and the aforementioned drinks on Saturday with numerous colleagues and acquaintances, but mostly he was more than happy to fill his life with logistics, value-added services, licensed freight brokerage, and carrier rates. His grandfather built this company, his father strengthened it, and John got up every morning wanting to go to work, and crashed in his bed every night looking forward to the next morning.

* * *

"Does your red bird speak Finnish?!" Bofurson's voice blared into John's ear, and John jerked out of his sleep. He realised that his mobile'd rang and he'd apparently picked it up.

"What?.. What the sodding..?"

"Thorington, are you awake?! It's an emergency! Wake the bloody up!"

"I'm up, I'm up..." John sat up in his bed and shook his head shaking off his heavy sleep. "What's wrong?" He quickly looked at the Tag Heuer on his wrist. 5:04. And it was Sunday. He had two more hours of sleep. He usually had a lie-in on Sundays, and then gym and family visits. Not an Irishman yelling into his ear.

"Your fit secretary? Does she speak Finnish? We have a phone conference with Reitti Ltd. in two hours, there is that bloody aggro with their shipment, and their translator has apparently been puking in a bathroom for at least half an hour now. They are asking if we have someone..." John rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand.

"Wait… Yes! She does speak Finnish. I remember Mrs. Perkins mentioning it." Some vague memories of his former secretary praising Miss Leary's language abilities stirred in his mind. "OK, I'm ringing her now." John was already climbing out of his bed and rushing to the bathroom.

Miss Leary's mobile rang seven times, before he heard her sleepy voice.

"Yes, Mr. Thorington?" She sounded surprised and raspy.

"Miss Leary, I'd never bother you at such time, but it's an emergency." He quickly told her of the barney. "We need you to come in. You'll be paid double of course, and I can come and pick you up. You do live on the South, in the Riverbend right? It's only twenty minute drive from me..." He kept on talking and then realise she was silent on the other end. "Miss Leary?"

"Um…" She made a small uncertain noise, but he had no time to deal with her sudden lack of work enthusiasm. He was busy jumping around his living room, pulling up his denim. They needed that contract with Reitti!

"What is it, Miss leary? Are you asleep there? Give me your address, I'm picking you up." His tone was irritated. She was still quiet, and he prepared to growl at her, when she sighed into the phone and finally spoke.

"Alright, I will come in, but… Mr. Thorington, I have no one to leave my child with. She will have to come with us."

Child?! He wasn't aware she had a child. To be honest, he couldn't care less if she had five.

"Sure. I'll be there in twenty..."

"I need half an hour," she interrupted him in a firm voice and then gave him her address. Her tone was professional, just as he needed it, and he hummed quickly writing it down and pulling a jumper at the same time.

* * *

The child was a girl of about five years. She looked exactly like her mother. Small, skinny, freckled, a halo of orange curls around her head. She looked sleepy and wore some strange assortment of colourful clothes, some were stripy, some polka dotted. John's secretary always wore grey boring clothes.

Altogether John lost interest in the girl as soon as Miss Leary stuffed her at the back seat of his Volvo on something that she called a 'booster seat.' Miss Leary himself sat at the front and he dug his heel into the gas pedal. The city was empty, and they rushed through it.

When they stopped at a red light, he finally had a look at his secretary. She sat unnaturally straight in the seat, and he wondered why she'd be uncomfortable. She wore some soft, light blue jumper and denim, her hair was gathered in a ponytail. He'd never seen her out of her trouser suits and make up before. She looked hardly twenty. How old was the kid?

John peeked into the rearview mirror. The girl was asleep, her head tilted on one side.

"What's her name?" he asked quietly, and his secretary jolted slightly.

"Mira." He saw her fingers fidget with the strap of her backpack. He'd never before seen her fidget. She's always been so collected and confident. To think of it, a backpack was a surprise as well. Especially considering it looked like the police box from that telly show.

John had nothing else to ask, so they kept silent till they got to the office.

* * *

They parked in the underground garage, and Miss Leary jumped out of the car and quickly opened the back door.

"Mira… Wake up, darling..." He'd never heard that voice from her, but again he could hardly imagine her cooing over contracts with warehouses. The girl twitched in her sleep but didn't wake up.

"I can just carry her inside." John was surprised to hear his own voice, given he sounded pretty unsure.

His secretary predictably started mumbling, refusing and saying it was not necessary, and he really had no time for it. He leaned into the car, unbuckled the belt, and picked up the girl. She didn't weigh anything.

He marched into the office, Miss Leary mincing behind him, still mumbling something quietly, and he looked at the child in his arms. She was hugging some stuffed toy, pressing it to her chest.

* * *

Nervy Bofurson was already pacing the entrance hall and froze staring at the procession.

"Go with Jimmy to the conference room, Miss Leary. I'll put… your daughter in my office." He couldn't remember the name. "There is a nice sofa there, and I'll read some contracts meanwhile."

Miss Leary looked doubtful for a second, her hands jerked, as if she was going to grab the child out of his arms, but then she nodded and followed Bofurson.

There was no quilt or anything in John's office, and some images from telly and films sort of made him think he was supposed to cover the child, so he took off his jumper and threw it over her.

* * *

He'd been reading the contract for twenty minutes when a rustling noise made him lift his eyes. The girl stood in the door of his office, his jumper on her shoulders like a superhero cloak. The stuffed toy was pressed to the chest again. He noted it was a stuffed cat with buttons for eyes. One button was big and blue, another one smaller and yellow. The girl was rubbing her eyes.

"Where's Mum?" She plodded inside and climbed into the chair across the desk from him. John had no idea whether it was a normal behaviour for a child.

"She's working. She'll be back as soon as she's done." He wondered whether he was supposed to offer her anything. Her mother, Bofurson and John were the only other people in the office right now. He really could use some help here.

"Do you have any paper? I can draw and keep myself occupied." She pronounced the last word with an obvious effort. It was probably something she'd heard from her mother or teachers.

John pulled a sheet of paper out of a printer and handed it to her. She placed it on the corner of his desk and looked at him clearly expecting something else. He pretended to read his contract.

"Do you have any colour pencils? A pen is nice too." She threw a look at the pens in a glass on his desk.

"Take any you want." He watched her smile widely and grab a pen. She looked very happy, and he didn't get it. Was there something special about pens?

"I don't get pens. I have my crayons, and we can wash them off clothes. And Nana sent me colour pencils, but pens are for work." The girl was industriously drawing some squiggles on the paper, her nose almost touching the paper, and he had to agree with her mother. Pens were not for children. The ink was quickly covering her fingers.

John went back to his contract.

"Do you have any green pens?" The question shook him out of his concentration. He looked at the girl over the top his screen. She looked very hopeful. "Mum has a pen that has twelve colours. I counted. She draws me cats and pigeons on my lunch bags. Can you draw a pigeon?"

The sprog was now dangling her legs in the chair and giving him a sunny smile. He frowned.

"No, I can't draw. And those are all pens that I have." As soon as he dropped his eyes on the screen, another question followed.

"Where's my Mum's backpack? With Tardis?" John sighed and pointed at the backpack that he carried in his office together with the girl.

The kid slid off the chair and plodded to the bag. She unzipped it and started rummaging in it. Some colourful small clothes were pulled out and piled on the carpet of his office, then a water bottle with those yellow one-eyed things that were everywhere in shops now. Then, with a loud rustle of the wrap the girl fished a package of Jammie Dodgers out of the bag. She sat on the floor, crossing long skinny legs in green, yellow and purple stripy leggings, and he watched her try to open the package. She was making groan like little noises and kept on jerking on the corners. John forgot about his contract and watched her mesmerised. She was giving the package glares. To think of it, her Mum did the same with stubborn printers. And then the girl stopped, clearly pondered her options and looked up at him.

"Would you like a bite?"

Smart kid, John thought and smirked. He stretched his hand towards her, and she dashed and pushed the package towards him. He opened the biscuits and gave them back to her. She was giving him another expectant look, just like after he gave her paper, and he shook his head in amusement.

"What?"

"You get the first one. I am sharing with you, because they are mine, so you get to take first." She had the same teacher-y tone as her mother would use with stroppy clients on the phone. John chuckled and took a biscuit. She climbed back into her chair, and for a few seconds they chewed in silence.

"Do you drive a boat?" she suddenly asked, nibbling on the second biscuit. He had taken the second one as well. Apparently the hospitality rule pertained to all biscuits in the package. He hadn't had any Jammie Dodgers in donkey's ears. They were just as good as when he was a kid. He forgot how much he loved them.

"I don't. I manage the freight company," he answered, and she gave him a doubtful look.

"But you do have a boat? I heard my Mum say to Auntie Thea on the phone that you have a dreamboat. She said you _are _a dreamboat, but I think she made a mistake and you have a boat." John froze with a biscuit between his teeth. "Can we go for a ride? When Mum is done work." The girl stretched her hand to him with the third biscuit in it.

John took it and put it on the table near him. The girl had already started on hers.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Mira." The girl was now studying a giant framed photo of the S.S. Admiral on his wall. "Do you have children?" She asked and stuffed the next biscuit in her mouth.

"No, I don't."

"A dog? Do you have a dog? We can't have pets, because my Mum has allergy. I want a cat, but maybe we will buy a fish if this job works out. Fish tanks are expensive and we don't have money." That was clearly also something she heard from her Mum.

"I don't have a dog." The girl looked at him with pity. She clearly couldn't understand why he'd not have a dog since he could get one. "And your father? Is he allergic too?" John wondered why exactly he was trying to sneakily find out whether his plain little bird of a secretary had a partner.

"He doesn't live with us. It happens sometimes, you know." The girl met his eyes. Hers were exactly like her mother's, slanted, almost Asian looking, of some strange colour. Probably. He'd never paid attention to what his secretary's eyes looked like. "He lives in the United States of America, and I get parcels from him. Last time he sent me the book about Hilda and the troll and chalks." The girls' voice dropped conspiratorily. "I think he asks my Mum what I want because I always get good gifts from him."

That was quite a perceptiveness for a five year old, John thought. Which reminded him.

"How old are you?"

"I was five in March."

"And your mum? How old is she?"

"She is twenty seven. We had a big party on her birthday. Nana came from Ireland." That explained the red hair. The girl ate another biscuit, the little tower of John's share was growing near him on the table. She was dangling her legs on the chair again and looking at the photos and diplomas on the wall.

"Do you want me to draw you a bat? They are nocturnal and mammals." The tone was very didactic.

"Do you even know what mammals are?" he asked chuckling.

"I do. It means they don't make eggs." The girl gave him a look as if asking him how he even could doubt her.

"Yeah, I do want a bat," he conceded and she put aside her half eaten biscuit and bent down over her paper again. The bat was a triangle pointing up, ears and giant eyes at the bottom. The picture was surprisingly good for a five year old.

"You are good at drawing."

"People always say that. It's because I'm small. They never tell us if we are bad, but my best friend Azea can't draw. Miss Jen at school still says he's good. You always have to tell nice things to children." The girl was now colouring the branch the bat was hanging off.

"I didn't know that you are not supposed to say anything bad to a child." He didn't. "I just like your drawing." The girl lifted her eyes and met his. It was a strange thing, to actually communicate with a child.

"My Auntie Thea says I'm good because Mum is good. They wanted her to go to that big school for adults where they teach to draw but she didn't go. She needed to work because she had me and we need to eat a lot of vegetables." That explained a lot.

So, his polyglot of a secretary was apparently a talented painter. Live and learn, as they say.

"She drew you. I saw the drawings in her desk." The girl was now eyeing his pile of biscuits, and he pushed it towards her on the table. The conversation was definitely getting more and more interesting.

"What do I look like in those drawings?" he asked with fake nonchalance.

"You mostly sit. Sort of looking to the side." The girl turned showing him her profile. "This way. And sometimes you look grumpy. But there are several where you smile. Mum likes drawing people when they smile. We have my picture in the kitchen. I do like this..." The kid smiled showing all her teeth.

"So, your mom said I have a boat… What else did she tell your Aunt about me?"

"She isn't actually my Aunt. But she comes a lot, and we love her. She is very nice! We went on vacations together last year, to Bath. We had to go to a lot of boring houses, because my Mum and Auntie Thea read about them in a book, but then we had Italian food, and we rarely do because it's expensive, so it was fun." The Girl was finishing the last biscuit. John wasn't sure how to return her to the previous topic. "My Mum said that you were the same old story and out of her league. Do you play cricket? Auntie Thea's boyfriend plays cricket and they always talk about him not getting into the league. What does 'the same old story' mean?"

John opened his mouth, not really knowing what he's going to say, when the door to his office opened and his secretary came in. She was frowning and looked very tense.

"We have finished the negotiation, the matter has been reserved. And I hope it wasn't too much trouble..." The slanted green eyes darted between John and the girl. And then they fell on the empty package of Jammie Dodgers. "Mira, have you eaten all of it?"

"I shared!" The girl exclaimed in indignation, and John nodded confirming.

That was such a strange experience, to look at her now. She thought he was a dreamboat and drew him smiling apparently. And out of her league. She thought he was out of her league. She was small, skinny, but suddenly out of her dull grey suits and with her hair pulled up in a jolly ponytail, soft cashmere jumper hugging her small body, she was… cute. And fit. She had the same long legs as her daughter, straight back, and he suddenly remembered how gracefully she moved around his office.

"She did. And we drew a bat." Somehow he wanted some credit for the picture of the bat.

"Common, Mira, it's time to get going, we still have errands to run." Miss Leary's voice was tense and lacked its usual soft lilt. He missed it. "We have taken enough of Mr. Thorington's time."

John didn't like her tone. He actually enjoyed eating biscuits and talking about bats. He also didn't like how the girl slumped and went to pick up her belongings and put them into the blue backpack, the corners of her mouth drooping mournfully. Her mother was already stuffing the bottle with the yellow monsters on it inside. Minions, they were called Minions, John suddenly remembered. There were posters around the city. John didn't care, he had no one to go to watch this film with.

The women, the small one and the only slightly bigger one, were now by the door. Miss Leary was clutching her daughter's hand and he suddenly noticed how blushed her cheeks were.

"I'm sorry if she bothered you, Mr. Thorington… and thank you..."

He suddenly felt livid. He dragged her out of her home on Sunday morning, without as much as asking her, made her work overtime and took time out of her family life, and she was thanking him and apologising for her daughter's perfectly nice behaviour.

"Oh wait!" The girl suddenly pulled her hand out of her Mum's grasp and rushed to his desk.

She grabbed the pen again and wrote underneath her bat, 'MIRA TO MR THORINTN.'

"Common, Mira," her mother urged, and with a hurried goodbye they were gone.

He was still sitting at his desk when even the faint smell of lilacs that as he now remembered always followed his secretary was gone. They were gone so fast that he didn't even have a moment to get up. Or offer them a lift home. Or a lunch that he now thought he owed them. A nice lunch at a Italian cafe down the street. It would have taken an hour, and he could have talked to the girl some more and have a better look at her mother's freckles.

And then it all hit him. Not how organised his schedule was, and not the precise wording of her business letters. Not her proficiency in eight languages. Not the new filing system that worked so much better. But the delicate wrists, long fingers and narrow palms. The neck, elegant and vulnerable, with soft curls at her nape, under the boring buns she wore every day. The hair was apparently curly, which he of course hadn't known until today as well, and the orange springs bounced when she twirled on her heels and pulled her daughter out his office. She could draw, and thought he was out of her league. She had a soft voice but confident manners. She was smart, and beautiful, and so very perfect!

* * *

He jumped from around his desk, slamming his right knee into it, cursing loudly, and floundered out of his office, somehow having trouble with the door, and then swiping his magnetic card, and then the stairs. He almost tumbled down once, and then he awkwardly caught himself, and jumping over two steps he rushed downstairs. The lift would take longer, and somehow it was so very important to catch them right now! As if there were no mobiles, or there wouldn't be Monday when she'd be back at his office anyroad.

They were standing on the bus stop. The girl was studying a poster behind the glass wall, and her mother was rummaging in the police box backpack. She was frowning, lips pressed into a stern line.

"I can't find the bus pass, Mira. Have you seen it?" The voice was scratchy, unpleasant. The girl turned to her to answer and noticed John.

A wide sunny grin spread on her face. And John suddenly realised that he was her saviour. Her Mum was unhappy, and the day was all cocked up, and there was no fun ahead of her, just some errands, and he had a chance to fix it all!

Except he didn't know how. He was frozen, right in front of a woman he just realised he might fancy, and the girl who was looking at him as if he were St. George to slay the dragon that was this nasty botched up Sunday.

And then Miss Leary… Wren, he suddenly thought, her name was Wren. She lifted her eyes and saw her daughter's face. And then she whipped her head and met his eyes.

"Oh..." The bright red lips formed a circle. How come he never noticed how sexy her mouth was? "Is something wrong?"

"Do we need to go back?" the girl asked, and that's when it all finally made sense.

The question sounded hopeful. She wanted to go back to his office. Although he didn't have colourful pens and didn't know that one was supposed to complement a child's drawing no matter how bad it was. And had no dog. Or even a boat.

"No, you don't need to go back. We need to go have lunch. In _Mario's_ down the street. Since Mira really likes Italian," John spoke firmly, looking into Wren's eyes, and he saw them widen and the lips slightly part. The girl squealed happily and started bobbing on one spot.

But her mum just stood there, her eyes studying his face, as if trying to suss out what was happening. From her perceptive, almost piercing gaze he suddenly felt unsure and asked himself whether he was being a self-assured prick. Maybe they didn't need him at all. Maybe he imagined it all from sleep deprivation, and all those looks she had thrown at him when she thought he couldn't see, maybe there were none of them.

"That is of course if you are not engaged otherwise," he muttered.

"We aren't!" Mira gleefully informed him. "Sunday is a clean up day, and we need groceries, but we can go later. Right, Mum?" She was looking up, twisting her head, trying to catch Wren's eyes, but the latter was still looking at her boss.

He could see surprise and suspicion in the slanted, cat like eyes, and he suddenly really wanted to kiss her. And he wanted her to be happy to have lunch with him. And maybe he wanted the three of them to go watch that Minion film. He hadn't been to cinema for ages.

And then she opened her mouth, and he clearly saw she was going to refuse. Why wouldn't she? He was her boss, and as thick as John sometimes was, he seemed to be catching up now. She hated today because she didn't want her private and work lives to merge. Well tough tits, he was determine to do exactly that.

So, he went all in.

"Please, Wren, would you have lunch with me?" Their eyes were still locked, and he just hoped she was better at reading people than he was, and he really didn't need to explain, because he bloody couldn't! He was a bloke, and he didn't know how, but he just wanted to have lunch with her and her daughter!

"Mum, please..." A small plea came, and Wren sighed and finally nodded.

That didn't feel like a victory he was hoping for. She was rigid, and her face was dark.

"Hooray!" The girl did a small happy dance at the bus stop and rushed back to the office. She correctly assumed they needed to take his car.

John followed her, and suddenly a small strong hand grasped his upper arm.

"Mr. Thorington, I'm very grateful for this lunch, and…" He looked down at her, and just couldn't tear his eyes from her freckled nose. "But please don't let her get used to you. She gets attached very quickly, because there is no male presence in her life. And she is a very trusting child. She will be expecting the same to happen again, so if you could make it clear to her that that is a special occasion, because of the work situation..." She continued whispering the same way, the same machine gun speech, well articulated and agitated, her fingers wrapped around his bicep, and he wondered what she was like in bed.

He slowed down, still keeping an eye on the girl who was now bending down studying the flowers in the pot at the porch of their office, and he quickly turned to his secretary and leaned in to her face. She choked on her prudent speech.

"Wren, I am asking you out. Tonight. Or any other day, when you can find a sitter." Her eyes widened again. The nose was twitching, in what seemed like a nervous habit. He'd never seen it before. She was way too professional to let herself show emotions at work. He also remembered that he was still her boss, at least for now, so the last thing he needed was for her to feel harassed. "If you say no, we can pretend it never happened, or you can move to any other department you want. I know Balinson was looking for a new second secretary..."

"Why would you?" she asked, in a small squeaky voice. Her face was close, his nose was full of lilacs, and damn, he really wanted to kiss her. But she didn't say 'yes' to anything yet.

"I fancy you." All in, John, he reminded himself.

"Since when? You could hardly tell me from a standing lamp yesterday." So she knew. He really shouldn't have been surprised, she was properly smart after all.

"Since this morning." He decided he needed to be honest. What if it worked out? Proving once again that she wasn't daft she threw a look at her daughter.

"What did she say?.. Goodness, she is too bright for her age. I don't understand… It's all so odd..." Apparently she mumbled when emotional. He didn't know that about her. But after all he only knew her professional side, which was ace, but she was right, he couldn't have told her from a standing lamp before. He could now, though.

He carefully lifted his hand and gently brushed at her upper arm, stopping himself from pulling her into him, like he wanted. She gasped and looked up at him. The eyes were bright, the lashes fluttered, and he was going to say something, something convincing and considerate, when a narrow hand lay at the back of his neck and she pulled him down...

...and to her lips.

The kiss was short, and chaste, lips closed, and still it was like fireworks in his brain. He wanted more of that! But, yeah, not right now… There was the kid, and they were under the windows of their office, and people were probably coming in at work already.

"I can have dinner tomorrow. I'll find a sitter." She sounded shy, and the cheeks were burning, and he indulged, quickly leaned in and brushed his lips to the warm silky skin on her cheekbone.

"Mum, there is a bumblebee!" Mira's merry voice made Wren jump away from him, she looked flustered, and that was from two small kisses, one of them on the cheek! He once again told himself to stop imagining what she was like in bed.

"Let's go have lunch," she choked out and rushed to the flowerpot to look at the bumblebee.

"Mr. Thorington, the bumblebee!" Mira called for him, and he suddenly guffawed and shook his head. The day suddenly felt ace, and he felt hungry, and really wanted some fettuccine. And his secretary, he really wanted his secretary! In all possible senses.

"Look, John, there is actually a bumblebee!" Wren's voice rang, shyness still hiding in it, but she clearly enjoyed using his name, and it did something to him too. He gave her his widest grin, came up and looked down.

The bumblebee was fat and stripy, and was crawling from flower to flower industriously. John chuckled.

"Let's go, ladies, I'm starving."

They started walking down into the underground parking, and suddenly small hand found his.

"You are supposed to hold my hand when we cross a street." The mentor like tone was back, and John smiled to Mira, catching Wren's mortified expression from the corner of his eye. Which he thought was very, very funny.

"Mira!" John's secretary apparently felt her daughter was being too free and bossy.

"I'll remember it from now on." John chuckled again. "What else is there?"

"Look right, then left, and stop before you get down from the kerb."

"I'll remember that as well."

"Use your ears and your eyes."

"Mira!" Wren attempted to interfere again, and he pulled his not-just-a-secretary-anymore into him, his arm around her shoulders, and quickly kissed the top of her head.

"Shush, Wren, the rules are important." She quieted and then her arm timidly went around his waist. "So, what else?"

And talking and walking, they reached the Volvo and Mira climbed at the back, into her booster seat, and Wren sat near him, and off they went.


	96. Teaser for a Webserial

**This one here, my darlings, is a teaser for my new romance webserial on my blog (kolmakov dot ca). Please, check it out and, perhaps, leave a review ;) It'll be updated every Monday (and Dr. T Series is there too, updated every Saturday). I was once again told that since my writing has little to do with _The Hobbit_ it doesn't belong on this page, so I'm moving some of my modern romance to my blog, but we all know who deliciously bearded and lusciously pony-tailed "Dr. Oakes" was in his previous life ;) Some names will be changed, but as in most of my writing it's still the same Ginger and her King :)**

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"Thea, I have a question about erection…"

"Hallelujah!" Thea yells into the air of the posh restaurant they are sitting in, and her perfectly manicured hands fly up in the air. Wren hisses at her.

"What do you want to know?" Thea asks then in a normal, though very eager voice.

"Well, it's different in different age, right?" Wren asks timidly, blush immediately spilling on her cheeks. Thea tilts her head.

"Please, please, please, tell me you've decided to follow my advice and finally cougar down one of your students?" This time Thea goes for no less theatrics, and folds her hand in a begging gesture in front of her glorious chest clad in Dior. "As I've been telling you all these years, your experience of twenty something years of shag and their budding enthusiasm will go together like these tomatoes and mozzarella!"

Wren stares into the aforementioned salad.

"Wren?.." Thea starts to suspect it's not that simple. "Common, tell me at least it's someone's older brother..." Her tone is menacing now. "Wren Elizabeth Leary, although you and I went to uni together, I'm still around thirty five, but mind you, you are forty eight! Don't tell me the bloke is your age!"

Wren pokes a slice of tomato, clearly trying to afflict pain and not pick it up to eat.

"No, no, no, no... Wren, no! Tell me it's not happening!" Thea puts down her fork with a loud clank. A waiter rushes to them, but after meeting her eyes does one eighty and disappears in the kitchen.

"Nothing's happening, it was a theoretical question... We hardly talked." Wren mumbles defensively.

"Who is he, Wren?" Thea's voice is strict and intimidating. Wren feels like a school pupil again.

"The new Dean of History Department," Wren squeaks. "But it's honestly just a theoretical question! Because I mean, he isn't interested... I was just curious, because I've never before thought of a bloke his age in these terms…" Wren's tiny voice dies out, and she stuffs a forkful of her salad into her mouth.

Thea is glaring at her. Probably. Wren can't see, pretending to be studying the mural on the wall to the left, but she knows Thea's eyes are currently burrowing a hole in Wren's temple.

"How old, Wren?"

Shivers run down Wren's spine from the cold tone.

"Um..."

"Wren..."

Wren wonders if this might be this one time in the last twenty something years that she's known Thea that she might get away with lying to her friend. Wren sighs.

There's no hope to escape the wrath of Thea Martin.

"Sixty two."

"Are you out of your bloody mind?!" Thea's holler rolls through the best Italian bistro of the city.

Wren tries to shush her but Thea is in full righteous indignation mode.

"Wren, you are literally a waste of resources! You teach young, fit, flexible, full of stamina and desire to prove themselves twenty something year old students every sodding day, and you are going for a brontosaurus?!"

Wren wants to say that: A. Dr. John Oakes is hardly a brontosaurus, and: B. She would never create a power conflict by getting involved with a student of hers - but she knows that it's wiser to keep her gob shut.

Thea's shaking her head mournfully and sighs deeply and sadly.

"Goodness, Wren, I'm disappointed..."

"But you are going to help me, right?" Wren asks tentatively. That gets Thea's attention.

"Help you with what?" There's a look of suspicion in Thea's gorgeous brown eyes, and Wren leans in and whispers.

"I don't know much about shag... Well, besides those three men you are well aware of. So... Can he even... You know... And if he can, how can I..." Wren fills her lungs with air, and momentarily closing her eyes she blurts out, "Seduce him?"

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**For the continuation of this chapter, please go to my blog kolmakov dot ca.**

**Also, my darlings, I've created a professional page for myself on Facebook (just type katyakolmakov as Facebook address). I'll be posting all writing updates there now! Stay tuned for more Thorin/John+Wren goodness :)**


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